Dead Ringer
by HeartsandEyesDelight
Summary: …Like a fun house mirror, or pictures of a parent when they were a child… you can see yourself, but it’s just a little off." A plane crash. Mistaken identities. A cute little boy. Eventual GSR, and eventually will be M. Happy New Year!
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: So this is the story that's been bouncing around for a few weeks, but I wouldn't let myself start until I finished at least one. As I finished 'Consequences, Baby,' here it is!

Hope you enjoy! Reviews, yes? :)

Happy New Year!

* * *

July 16th, 1998

"Debbie!" I called, watching my wife and little boy move away from me, towards security and their flight to San Francisco. She turned, not even attempting to hide the irritation on her face at my delaying her. I sighed. "…Call, so I know you guys landed safely?"

She rolls her eyes. "I _know_, Gil. …Don't be late, picking us up next week." I nod, and she turns to our son, who clutches her hand uncertainly. He's eighteen months, and looking over his shoulder, eyes wary under short brown ringlets. I don't like the idea of her taking him for a week—she isn't the most maternal of women—but she had planned this impromptu shopping trip with girlfriends when she knew I was in the middle of a serial case… there was no way I would be home enough to care for him.

"Come _on_, Wesley. You already said 'bye' to Daddy. Let's _go_." She tugged his hand impatiently, forcing him to turn away from me, and dragged him through security. I sighed again, waving and smiling big when he glanced over his shoulder again. It seemed to help, a little, and I waited until they were through security and out of sight before leaving, because although Debbie hadn't turned to look at me all through the process, Wes had turned and looked to me several times.

When they were gone I sighed, heading straight back to the Crime Lab, although I had just left it in order to drive them to the airport. Being the Lab Director hadn't necessarily been my ambition when I'd started… but I had met Debbie after getting injured on a case—a minor concussion, and she had been my nurse.

We'd dated for five years—and I'd proposed twice—when she finally told me what the problem was. She loved me, but she didn't want to marry a man of… 'limited means.' Which basically meant that remaining a CSI, or even a shift supervisor, as I had just been promoted, wasn't an option… not if I wanted to spend my life with her. And I did. I loved her.

But marriage is more difficult than my parents made it look. I hadn't really expected the relationship to change when we got married… or when we had a baby… or when I finally got the promotions she had wanted. And now… now it was… a peculiar arrangement. But I didn't want to dwell on that now—Wesley needed both parents, Debbie wanted to live the life that I had thus far provided her, and the political career I'd begun could only be hurt by a messy divorce and an airing of secrets.

In truth, I didn't care about the position… and I didn't want to play politics… but I had done a lot of good, as the Lab Director. I'd made a number of positive changes, and for the first time in decades, the crime rate was slowly down. It was still going up every year, but not so dramatically. …It felt like we were finally making a difference.

I didn't want to give it up. Next to my son, the lab was the most important thing in my life. And if I had to endure the late night calls from doctors she had worked with who were "just friends," well… that wasn't so high a price to pay for justice for the masses and a stable home for my child. It's not like we'd been intimate in… hell, the past year.

Not that I didn't desire her—I did, fervently. Her rich, dark chocolate locks… the delicate lift of her eyebrows, the line of her jaw, the arc of her cheekbones. She was tall and slender, but still curvy, and she had legs to die for. …But that alone was not enough. …Because the truth was, I don't think either of us was remotely in love anymore.

She wasn't who she used to be, and really, I probably wasn't anymore either.

* * *

July 23rd, 1998

I shifted my carry-on bag on my shoulder, eyes scanning the labels above each row—18 ABC, 19 ABC— I was looking for 25 A… a window seat. I moved forward several more rows, and found the two passengers who'd be sharing my row already seated. The woman beside the window didn't glance up from her magazine, but the small boy with bright blue eyes gave me a hesitant smile. Which was strange, because he looked like he couldn't be two yet. But then, maybe he was just naturally shy… I returned it, placing my bag in the overhead compartment and taking the aisle seat, even though it was technically mine. No need to cause problems unnecessarily, right?

I buckled my seat belt and then glanced at the little boy again, who seemed to be watching me with interest. His mother let out an exasperated sigh. "Stop _staring_, Wes."

He immediately looked at his mother, his bottom lip quivering. I wanted to intercede—tell her that he hadn't been bothering me… or that perhaps she ought to be kinder to her child. I had been a victim of enough abuse in my life to have no tolerance for it now. It was at that point that a woman across the aisle leaned over, clearly not having heard any of the exchange up to this point.

"What a beautiful little boy. Are you his aunt or his mother?"

I was alarmed at the question, and glanced uncertainly at the woman while shaking my head. "Oh, no, I'm… I'm not his… anything."

She turned to look at me and I froze, momentarily. It wasn't quite like looking in a mirror, but it was still alarming. …Like a fun house mirror, or pictures of a parent when they were a child… you can see yourself, but it's just a little _off_.

But my apparent reflection had turned back to her magazine, disinterested once again. I glanced at the boy, who did not seem surprised or upset by his mother's behavior. Like it was normal to be so dismissive and… well, downright neglectful. I wondered whether, during the course of the flight, I shouldn't discover the woman's name and report her to some form of authority… I hadn't actually _seen_ any abuse, had I?

As we began taxiing to our runway and the flight attendants went through the long list of safety procedures which, in all likelihood would do little to help in a real crash, I looked around for my exits, and counted rows. I had read once that, in a plane crash, you're often disoriented and, in the dark, may not be able to easily locate an exit. But if you can count rows and move seat to seat, you can find your way out. The exit over the wing was five rows in front of me. I carefully committed the number to memory.

The flight was uneventful and the woman in my window seat proved herself to be every bit as terrible as I had first assumed. She read her magazine until we were asked for a drink order—she ordered wine, but got her son nothing. She passed a credit card over and turned back to the magazine. Certain she wasn't listening—and eyeing the sleep mask in her lab—I ordered an apple juice and a water. I was handed them promptly and I tucked the juice box out of sight, just in case.

The attendant who had taken her card to run it returned a moment later, and she glanced up expectantly. "Here's your card back, Mrs. Grissom." She passed it, and the wine, over the top of the child's head, and they promptly moved on to the next row.

For a moment, I was dazed. …Was she the famous Dr. Grissom's wife? I was taking this trip to Vegas to interview for a CSI position at the crime lab. Not only had he been a renowned forensic entomologist for years, but he had single-handedly raised the LVCL to the second best lab in the country… falling sort only of the FBI, which had considerably more funding.

I had had numerous professors at Berkeley who believed he was the greatest forensic mind in the country—all of whom told me I was crazy to apply right out of grad school, and all of whom had been amazed when I'd been granted an interview. Granted, there were certain to be tons of interviewees, but they didn't give an interview to everyone… I was a serious consideration.

I glanced again at the woman in disdain, who had drained half her glass. Maybe the man himself was not as great as everyone thought… he certainly had terrible taste in women. Cute kid though.

Within ten minutes she had drained her glass, and within another fifteen she was snoring softly, sleep mask over her eyes, her little boy sitting still, absent anything to entertain him. …It was normal for such a small child to sit so still, unoccupied, for a long period of time.

I waited another five minutes, just to be safe, and then put the straw in the apple juice box and passed it to the little boy, who grinned at me in honest delight and surprise and sipped contentedly. Such a small gesture, and yet he seemed so utterly pleased by it. When he finished, I removed the evidence and passed him an activity book I'd bought for the Sudoku puzzles and a crayon from the bottom of my purse—for some reason, I felt like word searches needed to be done in crayon. Call it nostalgia.

He happily entertained himself coloring picture-less pages for a half hour, and I took the book back when his head started sagging and his eyelids drooping. I asked the attendant for a blanket for him… and also that she say she just saw that he was asleep and put it over him. I didn't want his mother upset.

She smiled softly, although there was some confusion in her eyes, but she passed me the blanket and I wrapped it snugly around the boy, despite the fact that it wasn't very soft. It actually… felt rather strange. Looking away from the infant who was now sucking his thumb and putting himself to sleep beside his nearly comatose guardian, I snatched the safety guide from the pocket in front of me and scanned it.

Fire-retardant blankets. I raised an eyebrow. Well… that was new. I wasn't sure whether the extra effort was comforting or… whether I was disturbed that the airline viewed such a thing as necessary.

Shrugging, I pulled out my book and started to read where I'd left off in the airport, because as we got closer and closer to Vegas, I was getting more and more nervous for my interview… because this was an amazing opportunity, and because, if this woman was his wife, I was certainly going to be intimidated by the man himself. Didn't people generally marry those who were similar to themselves?

I put my book away when the lights of Vegas became visible, waiting for the captain to announce out arrival and tell the flight attendants to prepare for landing. …His warning never came. Instead, there was a great shuddering of the entire plane… and a low of altitude, and the captain began speaking and then cut out… and then we were free-falling, and the only thing I could think of was that this little boy beside me was not in any kind of child seat. I pulled him roughly into my lap, and twisted my body as much as I could to keep him between me and the seat that had been at my back a moment before.

I don't remember the landing—I don't remember anything but unbelievable pain, and a fuzzy kind of awareness that flickered in and out. I sat up hazily, and realized after a moment that there was crying beside me… tucked against my chest and the seat that was more at my side than anything. Another glance at the window seat occupant told me all I needed to know—she was obviously dead—and so I tore my seat belt away, ignoring the pain that was someone everywhere and nowhere but so overwhelming that thought was a struggle, and movement only possible because I was running on pure adrenaline.

I picked the boy up, wrapping the blanket over his face and pressing him to my chest, and diligently counted seats forward.

One… The air was thick with smoke and breath was a struggle. I coughed, and staggered, and my eyes burned.

Two… It was hot. Much, much too hot… there was definitely fire, somewhere. …Why wasn't anyone else moving?

Three… I wasn't sure if I heard sirens in the distance or if the ringing was in my head, but I wished it would stop. It was making everything more difficult.

Four… I hadn't even checked if the boy was alive. Maybe I was carrying a lifeless corpse which I had so lovingly given apple juice and crayons just over an hour ago…

Five… But no, he'd been crying… he had to be alive… the door wasn't open, and I immediately felt desperate and helpless. I wanted to fall to the floor in exhaustion and let my pain consume me, but the whimper at my breast had me grasping for the handle, even though it burned, and forcing it open…

The smoke was thicker outside, and I wondered if it was even safe to step out onto the wing… but behind me was only death, and somewhere, out here, was the breath of fresh air that I needed.

Tiny hands clutched my shirt, and I stumbled out and fell to my knees in desperation, thinking that I must keep going… keep moving… forward… not… stop.

And then it was dark, and cool, and the little hands held tight.


	2. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: It's a little short, but I spent most of the day figuring out details in the heirarchy of the LVPD in real life, in the show, and then making a short of hybrid form for this story. So, fair warning: the way it works is plausible, but not correct. :)

Thanks for all the reviews, and hopefully I'll get another chapter up soon!

* * *

Chapter One:

I felt sleepy, sluggish, lethargic… I couldn't see—couldn't open my eyes, or lift any of my limbs. I wanted to panic, but I couldn't—literally, lacked the energy or mental capacity to feel properly alarmed at my new list of inabilities. And after a moment, my brain wrapped around the fact that I _could_ hear—quite well. There was a humming noise, and a constant, steady beeping that told me I was in the hospital, and a strange rustling sound… almost not a sound at all.

Like someone moving back and forth in agitation, maybe… but smaller. Like hands moving rapidly.

"I _know_, mother, but she's…"

The voice surprised me, maybe because no one had been speaking before. The rustling continued, and the voice groaned.

"I'm sorry that you feel that way, but she's my _wife_…"

More rustling and more of the voice—but I was feeling sleepy again, and couldn't decipher their meaning. Instead, I focused on the questions that were all too insistent, despite my looming unawareness.

Who did the voice belong to? Why was this man in my room, if I didn't know him? …Did I know him? Was he on the phone…? What was the rustling noise? Why on earth was I in the hospital? And why didn't his mother like his wife?

I drifted off then, his voice easing me into peace.

* * *

I groaned, my head in my hands. Nearly two hundred people had been aboard the plane and seven had survived—two of whom had been my wife and child. One would assume that I would be ecstatic—and I was happy that they were okay, really—but it just seemed that now there was an insurmountable series of trials to endure. Wesley, thank god, had been relatively untouched… he had some serious scratches and bruises, a cracked rib a broken collar bone, but he hadn't been burned at all. …Which was miraculous, as Debbie was burned all over.

Although, she had been lucky too—the Desert Palm burn specialist said that they were superficial, and that once the burned skin could be peeled away, she would be relatively unscathed. Although the level of damage she'd sustained in the crash was much more severe—several broken ribs, a broken arm and dislocated shoulder, internal bleeding, two sprained ankles, and trauma to all of the bones in her face… so severe that she would need extreme reconstructive surgery just to make it function again.

But her doctors reassured me that it was all possible, and though it may take months, she would be back to herself eventually. …Well, mostly back to herself. They were hopeful.

And none of this included the long list of emotional trauma they were expected to have to endure, once their physical ailments had been dealt with. Nor did it include my mother… but I couldn't even wrap my head around that now.

And on top of everything else, I had the serial case still unsolved and escalating and while my Division Director and Assistant Lab Director were both willing to pull all the extra time needed to pick up my slack, I just had a feeling that this was a guy I needed to be involved in catching—the graveyard shift I had left in order to pursue the politics I had previously hated would come closer to solving it than any other shift, but I still felt like… like they would need my help. Catherine was a great supervisor, and Nick and Warrick were great CSIs… but Holly was average, at best, and they'd been attempting to manage a CSI short for months.

"Oh, shit!" I pulled my phone from my pants pocket, calling my assistant, hoping that he hadn't forgotten about the days worth of interviews we'd scheduled… because I had. Completely. After a moment, he answered, and within minutes I was hanging up, reassured that at least the lab was not falling apart… even if everything else was.

A knock came to the door and I looked up wearily to see a nurse from the pediatric ward peering in. "So sorry to disturb you, Mr. Grissom. How is Debbie doing?"

I shake my head. "So far, unresponsive…" Debbie had worked with most of the people who were now caring for her… although I knew that she hadn't been friends with really any of them and, with the exception of one or two newer hires, most had been polite but distant. This woman was new.

"…That's too bad. Wesley's just woken up. I knew you wanted me to come find you…"

"Yes! Of course!" I glanced at Debbie again, and then followed the woman out. I felt like there should be some parting affection… but why would I treat the woman differently than either of us had treated each other in life?

I moved into his room, where a nurse was feeding him. When she saw me she immediately stood, deferring the job to me. Wesley, of course, had been finger-feeding himself for some time, and using a spoon for almost six months, but with the broken collarbone and cracked rib, it was proving rather difficult for him. I slid into the seat, smiling down at my only child. "Hey, buddy. How are you feeling?"

He smiled at me, brightly—he never gave anyone else the smile he gave me. "Good…"

I moved forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, worried that a hug might hurt. "You've been sleeping for a long time, Wes. Do you… do you remember how you got your owies?"

He shook his head—he had been rather vocal for his age… much more like a two year old than eighteen months, but he was… withdrawn now. Other than the bright smile, he seemed like… a different kid. He was acting around me the way he usually behaved around Debbie.

I sighed and scooped up a bite, moving it to his mouth. "Tonight you're gonna go home with Grandma, Wes. Won't that be fun? You can be back in your bedroom and have Grandma to play with…"

He nodded, chewing and swallowing and responding when necessary but… the light wasn't in his eyes. It worried me.

…It seemed as though I had nothing but worries, now.

* * *

Okay, soo the heirarchy for this story will be: Sheriff (who is elected), and Undersheriff oversee all law enforcement for the county and three assistant sheriffs, who oversee different areas of law enforcement. The area we'll be concerned with is "Law Enforcement Services" under which are 3-ish divisions. Each division has a Division Director and assistant director. The one, again, that we care about is the "Investigative Services" bureau, under which there are four divisions--Detectives, Narcotics, Violent Offenders Task Force, and Criminalistics. Each of these divisions are led by a director--and that's what Grissom is now. The Lab Director. Under him, he has an assistant lab director, then the shift supervisors. :) So with each position, you'll have an idea where he is politically.


	3. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Your reviews have been so amazing! Hope you enjoy! I might be headed to bed, but if I can keep myself awake long enough, I'll update Leave of Absence tonight too! :)

Let me know what you think!

* * *

Chapter Two:

When I woke up now, I was more aware… I still couldn't see, but I knew exactly who I was, and I remembered the crash in detail—I just chose not to, because it was a horrifying memory and I would convulse so bad in tremors that they would sedate me, and I'd be out again before I was even fully awake. And I needed to be awake, because there was still the troubling business of having strangers in my room. They rarely spoke to me, because I had a feeding tube and ventilator and was unable to move, nor even open my eyes… so they didn't know that I'd been awake, off and on, for… well, I didn't even really know how long.

I couldn't see light and dark, so I had very little concept of time.

But today, when I awoke, I felt more aware… more likely to stay awake… than I ever had. And so I listened, trying to glean clues about these people, and why they were here, and how badly I'd been injured in the crash, by using the only sense left to me: my hearing. So I listened.

_"The doctor says that there's been so much damage to her face that he isn't sure how she could see to get out of the plane… the bone of the skull that would support her eyes was severally damaged, but… I dunno. She did fall off the wing… maybe that's when the damage occurred."_

_Rustling again—was he on the phone? I was certain I had heard two sets of footsteps. _

_"No, the cosmetic surgeon had looked at x-rays and all the photos of her that I could find at home… he thinks he'll be able to reconstruct her face very well—no scars, even."_

_Rustling. _

_"It's not just cosmetic, Mom, and I know you're… unhappy, with her, but… she saved Wesley's life. I've talked to the guys from the transportation bureau, investigating the plane crash… they said the only way Wes could have been so unharmed, especially where they were seated on the plane, is if she shielded him with her own body."_

_Rustling. It was getting irritating being privy to only half the conversation._

_"Well, maybe it doesn't sound like her, but she was found with her arms around him, Mom. He was wrapped in a fire-retardant blanket while she was burned all over… She may not have been overly nurturing, but she loves him. …What kind of mother wouldn't love their own child?"_

_Rustling again. It only occurred when the man with the calming voice spoke to his mother. I tried to figure out why that might be. _

_"She saved his life—my career… hell, a thousand careers, would not even come close to that. I'm not… leaving her now."_

_My face had been destroyed, which was why it remained wrapped… and they were going to do a surgery that would make me someone else. But, at the very least, I had time—they were waiting until risk of infection went down. If I could only make a finger move… something to alert them that I was aware… maybe I could find a way to communicate before it happened._

_My pinkie finger twitched—I'm sure of it—but they didn't notice. _

"Sir—"

"Give me updates—how's the serial case going? The interviews?"

"No new leads—the graveyard shift has split up the individual victims, trying to look at the scenes individually, and they're going to come back together in a few nights. Swing and Day shift have split their other caseloads—for grave, this is the only case in Vegas."

"Good. Were you able to hire anyone—what about the Harvard graduate…the grad student from Berkeley? The one whose professor called to give a recommendation…? Sidley?"

"Sidle, sir. That's, uh… what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh?"

"She, uh… never showed up, sir. And since I know that, considering the recommendation from such a highly acclaimed forensic mind, you were looking forward to her interview, I looked into it a little more thoroughly. …She was on the same plane as your wife, Sir."

"…Oh. She, uh… is she… in the hospital, here?"

"No, sir. Her body was identified by one of her teachers who she'd done her master's thesis with…"

"…Okay. Thanks, John. I, uh… Narrow down the interviewing list to… I don't know, ten or so… and let those people know we'll be contacting them for a follow up interview in a few weeks."

"Of course, sir. How, uh… How's your wife doing? And your son?"

"Wesley is good… Debbie… Well, she hasn't woken up yet."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"So am I. Thanks John."

…That's when things became a little clearer. Because they'd been talking about me, which meant that this man was the famous Gilbert Grissom, and he thought I was his wife. …Which made more sense than I had expected this crazy mess to. She had been burned terribly, and had looked like me anyway… was seated in my seat. Obvious. And I—my face was destroyed, I'd been holding the boy… and they'd probably thrown the clothes I'd worn away before Dr. Grissom could point out that they'd not been his wife's.

Even though I was in an impossible situation—unable to communicate, mistaken for someone else, and going to be given someone else's face—I couldn't help a little bit of pride. …Which teacher had recommended me? If things had ended up differently, I might have gotten the job. …No, I still might get the job. Really, if I could find a way to communicate that I was not who I said I was, why wouldn't he understand and grant me an interview? They weren't going to hire someone for weeks, right? Surely I could communicate before then…

_"Debbie? …Debbie, …honey, uh. I don't know if you can hear me, but… but they said that… talking to you might help. I… I think it was… so brave, what you did, and… Wesley's fine. You saved him. He's… he's been asking about you… he misses you. I think it's a good sign because he's… he's been really quiet, since the crash. I, um… well, they're waiting to do the surgery… on your face, until the risk for infection has gone down. But I was thinking that I'd bring him to see you, once… once the bandages are off. It can be scary, you know, because he won't understand…" _

_He sighs, deeply, and I feel his hand slip into mine—almost hesitantly. Which is strange—it's the first time I've felt him touch me, but if he thinks I'm his wife… why should he be so hesitant? "I just wish you'd wake up, Debbie. I wanna… know that you're okay. Wes needs to know that you're okay."_

_I just wanted to reassure him—which was crazy, because why should I reassure him that I would survive when I was not the wife he was longing for? But still—his voice was so gentle, his hand, although calloused, so soft in mine… and he sounded… tired. I tried for the hundredth time—and managed to twitch my littlest finger again. And this time, because he held my hand, he felt it._

_"Debbie?! Debbie, are you… are you… awake? If… If you can hear me, move your finger again…"_

_It took all my strength, but I did it. Just a single twitch. _

_"Oh thank God, I've… I've been so worried. …How are you feeling? Is the pain medication strong enough?"_

_I twitched again—hoping he would understand that to be yes. He squeezed my hand tightly. _

_"You're gonna be okay, Debbie. I… I promise, we… we're doing everything we can for you."_

_I tried to twitch more—to alert him that something was wrong, but I couldn't manage more than one at a time… and so, exhausted from the effort it took, I simply relaxed, listening to him speak to me, pretending it was really me he had been happy to save… because his voice had a texture that was smooth and yet masculine, soft but sturdy. It seems crazy to be enamored with someone's voice alone, but… there was something indescribable about it. And as long as he was speaking, I was happy. _


	4. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: So hopefully this answered some of your questions... the tattoo issue I'm still uncertain exactly how I'm going to resolve it. I have several different ideas, but I'm playing with them, as of yet...

Reviews? ...Yeah, they're probably not going to be good, after this.

* * *

Chapter Three:

I felt as though there were not time enough in the day to manage all the things I was managing—Wesley was completely healed—physically anyway—staying with my mother at home, and still dramatically unresponsive. She told me that he didn't run around and play anymore—he sat and watched television. But even then, she didn't think he was watching… just staring. What eighteen month old just doesn't play?

The serial case was becoming a problem—the sheriff himself had called me to offer condolences over my family problems, and to ask how they were doing… because he wanted me back in the lab, helping. My old shift had gone back to taking their own cases, and the serial case was… well, cold, for the moment. But not in the papers. And it was agonizing to think that we would simply have to wait for another murder to occur before anything could be done.

But really—what could I do? I was running a lab out of a hospital room, communicating with a wife via her twitching finger, which was still the only thing she could move after weeks of responsiveness, and awaiting the go-ahead for plastic surgery just so that the woman could have use of her eyes again.

The hospital had innumerable requests from me—signing forms, speaking to specialists, follow-ups and tests and scans. They had her jewelry in a safe that they'd mentioned, off and on, for weeks, and yet I kept avoiding it. I wouldn't know what she'd been wearing and what was missing… the only item of jewelry I knew for a fact I could identify was her wedding ring, which had resided in her jewelry box for the last four months… about the time the doctors stopped giving me excuses when they called for her.

And then my mother—who had become more my friend in the last six months than anything else—who had been urging me to leave the woman. If we didn't sleep in the same bedroom, hardly communicated and fought often when we did… and if she wasn't the kind of mother I felt Wesley deserved… then why was I staying with her? Of course, she had suggested marriage counseling when the problems started… she's catholic, after all, and certainly not in love with the idea of divorce. But then, she's always been protective.

But with Debbie in the state she's in, I have an even harder time with the prospect. It's no longer a marriage of convenience for all involved (except perhaps my heart), but a matter of what I owe her. She doesn't have any family to speak of… her best friend passed away shortly before Wes was born… I'm all she has. And had I not promised, before a god I usually believed in and everyone I'd ever cared about that I would love and support in good times and bad?

Even if the vows meant little to her, I did not take them lightly. My wedding ring had not been removed since the day she placed it on my finger and we were pronounced husband and wife.

A knock once again startled me from my thoughts—I had been attempting to read over the serial case and provide some insight for the baffled graveyard shift, but with little sleep and the constant beeping reminding me that my wife who no longer loved me was very much alive and very much broken, it had been far easier to wallow in misery than read a file.

It was the best plastic surgeon in Vegas—being the Lab Director was not necessarily a high position on the local food chain, but I had been noteworthy enough to entice him to rearrange his face lifts to come look at Debbie. The x-rays and photographs had him reassuring me that, though it would be a long and difficult surgery, he felt confident that he could have Debbie returned to normal without the scarring. There would be slight differences, of course, but he assured me they would hardly be noticeable.

She'd lost most of her teeth, as well, in the crash… but her dental records had been used and a prosthodontist would be removing the roots of her teeth during the surgery and installing implants—a few weeks after the surgery, she would get her new teeth and more or less use them as normal. So, really… everything was going smoothly.

It was just way too much to take in.

And though I hated myself for thinking it—the Investigative Services Division Director, my boss, was retiring in a few months. And although he had an assistant position beneath him, I had been told by those above him that I was being considered as his replacement, in addition to his assistant. And while I had not assumed I wanted any such thing, I had set my sights on it at first because Debbie wanted it… and eventually, once I realized how much of a difference could be made with that kind of influence, I began to feel like I could do a lot of good in higher positions.

I could slow the crime rate in sin city. Wasn't that something to aspire to?

But no, I had a wife and child and serial killer who were all demanding my attention—the least of my worries should be career advancement. …Even if Debbie, prior to the accident, had been the leading voice of encouragement. When my salary and position increased, hers did as well. Without her nursing job, and with the addition of a child, her shopping budget had been suffering. She had often complained that, at social functions, she couldn't afford to dress the way other Director's wives did.

To which I had replied that all of the directors on my level had wives who worked.

But the pettiness of that past was irrelevant—her surgeon was here, and I needed to focus on her needs, just now.

"Dr. Bronson." He smiled.

"Gil. How's she feeling today?"

"Tired—but I don't know if the medicine they're giving her is too strong or if it's normal for her to sleep so much… I'm afraid to have them lower it and have her be in pain. Goodness knows she couldn't tell us."

He nods politely. His bedside manner is impeccable, but insincere. "Well, I've just been speaking with her doctors, and they feel like she's made a lot of progress these past few weeks. We'd like the schedule the surgery for tomorrow morning, if that works for you."

It was rather sudden, but it was almost a relief to have it over with. Because once she had the surgery and had a few weeks to heal, they could remove the bandages and the feeding tube… she could start eating on her own and start speaking—although I'd been warned that the damage to her lungs and esophagus had been severe, and that it was very likely that her voice would be scratchy and deeper than before. They could look deeper into her burn trauma, and start physical therapy, and Wesley could come visit his mother.

I glanced over at her sleeping form. No, whatever the woman's faults, she had saved my little boy's life… nothing I could do my whole life long would repay her that debt. I nodded, fervently. "Of course. As soon as possible. I'll talk her through it, when she wakes up."

He nods. "She may seem agitated—I've found that victims of severe trauma like this have trouble with the idea of a rebuilt face. After all, it's their entire identity in my hands… if she seems too upset, it might be kinder to have the nurses sedate her. If her blood pressure is too elevated, we won't feel safe to perform the anesthesia and we'll have to wait on the surgery. Everything will be better, once she's overcome this hurdle."

I nod, and shake his hand. "Thank you, doctor."

"I've scheduled the surgery for seven a.m. Will I see you before she goes in?"

"Yes. Of course… I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else."

I did explain and she did seem agitated, as he had predicted. I wasn't sure whether to feel reassured that he obviously knew his craft so well, or concerned at her reaction… but either way, the surgery was necessary. So I called a nurse in to sedate her, and tried to calm her with my voice in the meantime, reciting poetry as I had when we were first dating… something I hadn't done for her in a year, at least. I don't know if the drugs soothed her or I did, but she slept then, through the night, and into the anesthesiologist, who put her under.

In a few hours, we would be on our way to finally having a sense of normalcy in our lives. And Debbie would be happy about that. And happy to have her face back--her doctor friends would appreciate it too, no doubt.


	5. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: :) Hope you like. Hopefully I'll have another update up today...

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Chapter Four:

I woke up, and I knew I was different. Which is crazy—I couldn't actually feel that my face had changed… mostly I felt groggy. I felt like I would have one monster of a headache, if I could feel anything. …And the abundance of pain medication alerted me that the surgery had gone on as planned, despite my attempts to stall or deter it—but then, who could be expected to understand that a flailing pinkie finger before surgery didn't mean "I'm scared" but "I'm not really the woman whose face you're going to give me."

It was a problem.

But the medication draped me like a warm blanket, and even though it irritated me, I supposed it was better than being in pain. I twitched my finger, just to make sure I still could, at which point I became aware that a hand held mine, again. Mentally I looked to one side, but that was crazy too. I still couldn't open my eyes… although, for some reason, I felt like the movement itself was more realistic. While I tried to move my eyes back and forth in my skull—and reveled that now I could—the hand in mine squeezed, and Dr. Grissom's voice came again.

"Debbie… hey, are you awake now?" His voice was soft. "Dr. Bronson tells me that the surgery went perfectly… he keeps telling me that your face will give him all kinds of bragging rights. …Which, you know, makes him a total asshole, but it's reassuring…"

I laughed—although I don't know what I really had to laugh about—and it hurt. It hurt in my chest and in my throat, but I could hear the smile in his voice after that. "Well, anyway… it sounds like everything's on track. I've talked to Dr. Hanson—your regular doctor—and between the two of them, they seem to think we can remove the bandage within the week. …You'll be able to see, and… and they're going to wean you off the respirator, start you on a liquid diet and work you up to real food… you'll be starting basic physical therapy. Now, I've been told you won't be able to talk right away—the smoke inhalation did a number on your vocal chords, but I have been assured that you will regain the ability to speak soon."

He sighed heavily, revealing that he wasn't as carefree and hopeful as he tried to make himself sound. "And your burn specialist has said that… that the places where your hair was burnt and singed should be able to grow hair with no problem, so in… in a few weeks, you're going to be almost back to normal."

I wanted to sob, but for some reason, I couldn't. Not that I wasn't able to… but that, with this man present, even being completely overwhelmed by the loss of my identity, I didn't feel as sad as I ought to. His voice kept me calm, and his words were reassuring. I had lost myself, but surely that could be put right again, eventually? …It sounded like, minus the whole mistaken identity thing, I had been ridiculously lucky as far as the whole surviving a plane crash thing went. I had been burned, but there would be no scarring… my face destroyed, but thankfully repaired, mostly scar-free. Bones broken and sprained, but fixed.

He sighed, softly this time. "Anyway… it sounds like it's going to be good. I, uh… I'll be here, at the end of the week, when they remove your bandages, but… well, you know I was supposed to speak at the forensic academy conference in Pittsburgh this year? I… I tried to get out of it, but… the Sheriff himself called and informed me that… well, more or less that I had to go. He said that… things were going well with you and Wesley, and there was no reason you couldn't survive without me for a couple weeks. He… he has some political agenda involved, I'm sure… showing off to other labs or something, but…"

He sighs heavily again. "…it was implied that my job depended on it. Not said outright, of course, but… well, with you not working, I need the job just to keep medical care available for you and Wes. Granted, he probably couldn't get away with it if I decided to fight it… but that could take months, and… well, you two don't really have the leisure of being without for months, so… so I'm going to be gone for a couple weeks."

I twitched my finger in agitation—I didn't want him to go. His calm, reassuring tones had been the only bright spot in my bleak existence even since the crash. And he seemed to understand the emotion, though his voice was… hard to define. Confused, maybe. Why would it be strange for a wife to be agitated that her husband was leaving?

"I… I know it's hard for you, Debbie. To be alone all day… I, I know you and my mom haven't always been close but… I'll ask her to come visit, while I'm gone. She can close the door and speak, because I know you never really got the hang of signing… she won't like it, in public, but…" he trailed off, as if in thought. "And she'll bring Wes in… the doctors said the swelling should be down by then. …I think it'll be good for him, to see you. And… I'm sure you miss him." He sounded anything but sure.

He sighed again. "Anyway, Debbie… I need to stop in at the lab, see how they're doing with… with the serial case. But I'll be back in a couple hours, okay?" He squeezed my hand and then moved out of the room, leaving me alone.

As soon as I couldn't feel his presence anymore, I felt like panicking. I looked like a stranger, everyone I knew believed me dead, and by the sound of everything Dr. Grissom had said, I would be unable to tell him the truth before he left for two weeks… at which point, I would be attempting to speak with a woman who didn't like me… or, well, didn't like Debbie but for all practical purposes—me.

In an effort to stave off the absolute panic which was now gripping me, I replayed the things he'd told me. I was a CSI after all, and the rustling sound had been driving me crazy for weeks and weeks. But now—now I knew that his mother—who hated me—was deaf. And… she didn't like speaking with the door open? …Probably didn't like speaking in front of strangers. So she signed in public… which was the rustling I'd heard. But she could obviously read lips, because Dr. Grissom had spoken to her… and there was no rustling noise, when he spoke.

But Debbie didn't know how to sign well, so… so at least, when the woman was here, she would be speaking. That was a comfort. …I didn't think I could tell a woman who hated me that I wasn't who everyone thought I was. And not understanding her signing would do just that, if Debbie had been… well, a better daughter-in-law.

Granted, I knew very little about their marriage and even less about his mother—but I had seen the way Debbie treated their son and it had disgusted me. …And maybe that was why Dr. Grissom reacted to me the way he did, even when he believed I was his wife. He hadn't once told me he loved me… rarely held my hand, except to communicate via my fingers. He had seemed surprised that I would be agitated at the thought of him leaving for two weeks… I was beginning to feel like Dr. Grissom was an honorable man, standing beside his wife in her time of trial, but… not a man in love. Perhaps neither of them loved each other, anymore… or perhaps they never had.

He'd moved up from Shift Supervisor to Lab Director rather quickly, after all. …I knew this, because I knew a lot about the man. In part, this had been done as preparation for the interview. I had looked into old cases, knew the schools he'd attended, the places he'd worked. I wanted to be able to have something in common with him—although California was the only thing—and to be able to speak knowledgably if, for any reason, he brought up one of his past cases.

He had given an interview once stating that he had performed necropsies on dead animals in his neighborhood as a child, shortly after the death of his father. The last part hadn't been in the interview, but deaths were a matter of public record… and I put two and two together. He had obviously been trying to understand what had happened. That was another thing we had in common—our fathers had died when we were young—but it was hardly the kind of thing you brought up in an interview.

Despite this vast knowledge of the man, I had no idea what he looked like. I had researched his past, studied his cases, laid in a hospital bed believed to be his wife… yet I had not seen the man.

I tried to imagine what he would look like. Would his face be soft, like his voice? I knew he was in his forties—did he have thick hair, or was it thinning? What color was it? Was it graying? …What about the eyes? Somehow, I knew he'd have gentle eyes… because everything I knew about him—his hand and his voice—were both so very gentle.

I heard a nurse slip in shortly after that, speaking to me softly—because she didn't know if I were awake or asleep—asking how I was feeling and telling me it was time for my pain meds. Within minutes, my brain felt sluggish again, and I drifted off to sleep.


	6. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: A little short. Sorry. :) As always, let me know what you think!

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Chapter Five:

The week was uneventful, until that Friday, of course, when my bandages were being removed and Dr. Grissom would be leaving. I was scared, and worried, and sad to see him go. He had been so kind and, although I didn't know him, I believed deeply that he would have been just as kind, even if he'd known I wasn't his wife. Perhaps less attentive, but no less kind, certainly.

He arrived early, telling me that he'd spend the whole day with me… help me in any way I needed. He must be feeling guilty, I decided, because he hadn't spent the whole day since the first week I was able to communicate. But there was a three car pile-up that morning, and my doctors were delayed. Dr. Grissom paced the room in frustration, constantly questioning nurses how long it would be.

Ten minutes before he had planned to leave in order to make his flight, my doctor rushed in, apologizing profusely and rushing to resanitize his hands and begin the process of removing my many bandages. He started with my face, slowly unwrapping. When my skin hit the exposed air, it felt cold and open, but it was a nice feeling. I was sitting up, and I blinked feebly, trying to open my eyes, but it was bright. I heard Dr. Grissom cross the room and the light dimmed while my doctor unwound my hands. I focused on them first—they had been wrapped and unwrapped multiple times that I could remember, but I had never seen them.

The skin looked shiny and pink, but relatively unharmed. I looked up at Dr. Grissom, immensely curious about the man who had soothed me for weeks, and it took everything in me not to gasp—which would have hurt, with the respirator and feeding tube in my throat. He was… beautiful. There was no other word for it—he had dark curls, close to his head, and just the tiniest touch of gray at his temples. His eyes were bluer than anything I'd ever seen, and deep and kind and gentle. He had a sweet, hesitant smile, straight, white, even teeth, and lips that looked petal-soft.

Immediately I felt self-conscious—this gorgeous, kind, beautiful man stood before me, a gentle smile on his face and I… My hair, where it hadn't been burned off, had been shaved for surgery… my face was still swollen, my eyes bleary… I was toothless and couldn't eat or breathe for myself, and if the skin on my face looked anything like the skin on my hands…

Tears burned my eyes and I turned from him, not wanting him to look at me. …It shouldn't matter. But it did… and then he had to go… he apologized, profusely… he always looked in my eyes, despite how terrible I know I looked… but he had to leave, and he did, and I cried.

Because he was so breathtaking, and I… didn't even deserve to be next to him. I wasn't his wife—I wasn't a woman he loved so deeply that it would never matter what I looked like. And it hurt, to know that he would care what I looked like, when he knew… it hurt that my only comfort in a bleak and empty world would feel so negatively, towards me.

For the first time since the crash, I let myself completely break down, and I sobbed most of the night.

The next day, they started weaning me off the respirator. By Monday, I was drinking my meals through a straw and breathing for myself… but I couldn't speak. Dr. Grissom's mother came in, bringing me pajamas to change into, and she stayed and talked with me. Her voice was off, and her kindness forced, but she did not seem to be a mean woman. I was certain Debbie deserved her disapproval. I wanted to ask where Wesley was, but I couldn't speak.

The first week, I started physical therapy… which consisted of squeezing a stress ball. And while I looked incredulous when I was first handed the ball, a few repetitions had my hands aching. By the end of the week, I dreaded Mrs. Grissom's visits, still had not seen the little boy I had saved that Dr. Grissom was so worried about, but I had a little more control over my body. My hands had suffered the worst of the burns, and so I could walk now… the catheter had been removed and I used the bathroom, showered, and changed on my own.

And as the next week approached—as Dr. Grissom's return approached—I started getting excited. I had been dreaming about him… dreaming about him holding my hand, smiling, whispering poetry from beautiful lips.

My physical therapist informed me that in another week, we'd start working with a pencil… so I knew that shortly I would need to determine how on earth I could tell him that I was not who he thought I was. …But this information did not sit right with me. I imagined telling him, and I imagined the sense of betrayal that would cross his eyes… the disbelief and sadness and, really, probably anger. He would have expected me to find a way to tell him…

I didn't want to face his disapproval. Because as crazy as it sounded, I felt like I was falling for him. I _missed_ him, when he was gone. …If I was honest with myself, what was I going back to? Surely, my apartment had been rented, my job given to a new hire, my funeral attended and a body laid in its place. My possessions had likely been sold or donated or trashed, my obituary written. I had no family to return to, no life to return to… my only aspirations had been my education and coming to find this man…for a job, of course. Just for the job.

...Before, it was just for the job.

That was true—but... would I give up being up a CSI for being a man I barely knew's wife?

I didn't know… I frightened myself just by thinking such a thought. …But I had never loved being 'Sara Sidle.' …Mrs. Grissom didn't sound so bad, after that.


	7. Chapter Six

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Sorry if it doesn't do too much plot-advancement... I had to drive around for an hour this morning trying to find the damned vet clinic (because the fiance's phone gps can't possibly be wrong) because our bunny has an eye infection. So, needless to say, I had less time for developing this chapter. Still though, I think you guys will like it... or hate it...

:) Reviews?

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Chapter Six:

The day before Dr. Grissom returned home, his mother brought Wesley in to see me. This, I think, was the deciding factor.

He looked so scared… so hesitant. I couldn't speak, but I held my arms out to him, and his reaction was so strong it broke my heart. He ran to me, flung himself up onto the bed, and even though it hurt when we collided, it was the sweetest kind of pain. Tears ran down his plump little cheeks and his arms were a vice grip around my neck, and he cried "Momma, Momma" over and over while I rocked as best I could, my arms loose around him because I didn't have the strength to hold him as tightly as I wanted to.

He fell asleep there, his face wet and red and raw, and I lay back in the bed, ignoring Dr. Grissom's mother entirely, and cried myself. This child was an orphan, in a sense. Yes, his father was alive… but he'd lost his mother, one of the most important people he'd ever know, and he didn't know it… he was so relieved to see me. He didn't know…

Could I really be the one to break this sweet little child's heart, when deep inside I knew, without a doubt, that I loved him deeply… that I wanted to be the Momma he cried out for? …And Gil—I had taken to calling him this, in my mind, because it's what his mother called him—I had dreamt of him constantly. He was the most beautiful man I'd ever known, and that was before I'd seen him… just his voice, his heart, his dedication to his family… his intellect. And when I'd seen the man, I'd become a believer in love at first sight.

I didn't know in that moment that it was love—I just knew that I was awestruck and self-conscious at how I paled in comparison… but it had become clear, in the time he'd been gone, because I had hardly gone a minute without thinking of him. I spent my time not watching TV or reading the books his mother had brought me, but remembering everything I'd known about the man and picturing him in that setting.

What kind of CSI was he? What kind of supervisor? What kind of Lab Director? …What kind of student, or teacher, or T.A.? What kind of husband, and father, and son?

Hours would pass without my noticing, and by the time the day arrived when he would return, I felt as though I'd shared a thousand lifetimes with the man and knew him intimately, inside and out. …And yet, I had not decided concretely whether I would attempt to reveal myself or not. Because, really, I couldn't communicate. I mean, I guess I could gesture 'I'm not your wife,' but… that was rather complicated. This was life, not charades. (And I wanted to hang on to the feeling of being his for as long as I could.)

I found myself more and more anxious as the morning wore on—his flight got in at eleven, and he said he needed to stop by the lab quickly to drop off some things, and then he'd be over. This message was delivered none-too-kindly by his mother. I had to tamp down my feelings of defensiveness… after all, she didn't dislike _me_, she disliked Debbie. Hell, even I disliked Debbie.

And a nurse—one who must be new, because she was far too kind to me… I had overheard Gil explaining to his mother why much of the staff seemed distant…became my saving grace. She stopped in to check my vitals and see if I needed anything, and I leeched on to her kindness like a lifeline, placing a hand to my head and giving her a meaningful look. The hair was growing back, but this made me feel and look more like a man than when it'd been shaved off completely. She looked at me closely, and then the light bulb went off.

"Oh! Your husband is coming back from his trip today, isn't he?"

I nodded enthusiastically, and she grinned. "Let me find you a scarf, honey, and maybe some foundation. We'll get you all set up for your man!" She winked exaggeratedly, but I still felt myself smiling. It was nice to be treated that way… the way Wesley treated me, and this nurse… because my other two visitors seemed to want to keep some distance, and to be… distrustful. And while I was sure they had very good reason and I didn't hold it against them, it certainly didn't feel good.

She returned with a broader selection than I would have imagined a hospital could provide, although I was pretty sure Desert Palm had a cancer center, so maybe she had borrowed some from them. One was very patterned, and I worried that it might draw his attention there… rather than to my face. Another was the generic red and white squiggly pattern of a bandana, which didn't appeal to me either. The third was a deep, cornflower blue—the exact color of his eyes—and when I put it on, the only thing you noticed were my eyes… which couldn't compare to his, I knew, but I thought they were still one of my better features. …Especially as I was presently toothless and nearly hairless.

After lunch, my nurse-friend returned with a bag of cosmetics, saying she'd checked with my doctors and they didn't believe there would be a problem using make-up… my face had had two weeks to heal, and even I knew it was looking remarkably better… even if it wasn't me. I avoided the mirror in the bathroom like the plague, but I knew the swelling had gone down. As my fine motor skills were still lacking, she applied it for me… not much, just a light covering and an accent here or there… subtle, but nice. I forced myself to look in the mirror and appraise myself without the loathing that came from having someone else's face… and surprisingly, I was happy with it.

And then he arrived—I'd been lying with my eyes closed, trying to still the swooping sensation of butterflies in my stomach when I heard his footsteps, distinct in my mind from all others, moving down the hallway and pausing in my doorway. I opened my eyes slowly, a smile breaking across lips which I kept firmly closed, taking in the man in all his glory.

He looked rumpled from his plane ride, clothing wrinkled, hair tousled, eyes tired. But he returned my smile and stepped into the room then without hesitation, moving to sit beside me and take up my hand again—force of habit, from when my communication had been mostly pinkie-based, but I wasn't complaining. My heart was hammering in my chest as I drew in a deep breath, hanging on his every movement.

"Hey… How are you feeling? You look amazing, Debbie."

Sara, I wanted to correct. But Gil Grissom didn't care about Sara Sidle. I moved my free hand, spread out and palm down, side to side, to indicate that I was alright and he smiled.

"Well, you look like you're feeling a lot better than you were… does it feel good to be able to move around, see everyone?"

I nodded emphatically, and he grinned, tilting his head and considering me. "…My mom said she brought Wesley in yesterday."

I nod slowly, remembering the crying child, and he sighs. "I don't think he believed us that you were really alive until yesterday… Mom says he's been talking more, just last night and today but… it's a start. He's still… too quiet… but he's not silent." I nod, and he squeezes my hand. "Were you happy to see him?"

I nod emphatically and he smiles softly again. There's a brief lull in the conversation, and I pick it up thoughtlessly, wanting to hear everything. I point to him, and then open and close my thumb to my extended fingers as if my hand is talking, to myself, and then frown… wondering how to play out the word 'about'… after a moment, I glance at him again, point to him again, and then walk my two fingers, making them trip and fall. He laughs out loud.

"You want me to tell you about my trip?" I nod again, and he laughs more. "When will you be able to talk, did the doctor say?"

I shrug and shake my head and he nods knowingly, and then launches into a play-by-play description of his trip… seeming to wonder from time to time if he's boring me, and then looking surprised at the look of rapt attention on his face. …And it was rapt—even if I hadn't been head over heels for this man, I would have found his scientific and detailed description of the forensic academy conference enthralling. …I had been hoping to attend it, in truth… and I was living vicariously.

When he finished, I was fighting to keep my eyes open—not because I wasn't interested, but because my pain meds made me drowsy. He smiled kindly, squeezed my hand again, and said he'd let my sleep. I still didn't know what I was going to do, exactly… but his soft, hesitant breath against my forehead as he placed a chaste, uncertain kiss to my brow made me doubt very much that I could do anything to send him away from me, even if I wanted to…


	8. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: I do not own them.

A/N: Bunny's on antibiotics! Thanks for all your concern! :) Sprinkles says hi! Hehe.

Sooo, let me know what you think. If I have time, I'll update this one again tonight. I'm going to try to update 'Leave of Absence' next, but I'm having a little bit of a block with it right now, so we'll see.

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Chapter Seven:

Despite communicating actively with my hands, I still felt like the sentence "Your wife is dead and buried under my name—Hi, I'm Sara Sidle" was not one you hand-motioned. Mostly, I was enjoying spending time with Wesley and Gil… enjoying getting to feel like mother and wife, even if I knew I wasn't, really. Hey, I lived through an eff-ing plane crash, I deserved a little feel-good. …Didn't I?

The problem was that I had always been a quick study, and I was quickly mastering the pencil. My letters were large and child-like, which embarrassed the hell out of me, but it meant that Gil wasn't likely to jump to his feet at any second and accuse me of my deception because my handwriting was not his beloved Debbie's perfect scrawl. My hair was growing back—my nurse-friend had told me that she thought within the month I wouldn't need the scarf. It would be a short haircut, which I didn't love, but she told me it would look very chic, and it was nice to have someone who cared about my ego.

Gil, I think, didn't really realize how hard it is for a woman to be so disfigured, and his mother may have, but she didn't care.

The brightest point in my day was when his mother would bring Wesley in and he would catapult himself into my arms. The first time Gil saw this, he attempted to scold the boy, but I wrapped my arms around him protectively and shook my head… and though he looked confused, he had nodded sincerely and hadn't attempted to scold the boy since.

I would look at picture books or watch cartoons with him, and Gil and his mother would talk—his mother would sign, and after Wesley shh-ed Gil once during a cartoon, Gil had taken to signing back so that we could have some time together. Which was sweet, but I wanted to know what they were saying, and with half a conversation I felt I could guess… I made up my mind to learn sign language when I got out of here.

No. I didn't, because well before I got out, I would have told them the truth and shipped back to San Francisco and my absence of a life there. No money, no possessions, no friends, no place to live.

Really, when it came down to it, I was trading a degree for an entire life—Debbie hadn't worked anymore, I'd gathered that much from listening to Gil, and certainly they wouldn't expect me to work right after my accident anyway. I could stay home with Wes during the day, curl up with my entomologist husband at night, and have a family…

No. No, it wasn't fair to him and it wasn't right. I would have to tell him, and accept the nothingness that I was left with.

My teeth implants were put in after Gil had been home a week, and it was roughly about this time that I found myself able to make sounds. They were strangled, scratchy sounds… completely unintelligible, but I was told that with the level of damage smoke inhalation had caused, it was to be expected…

And then, I woke up from an afternoon drug-induced nap to find that Gil was talking to my doctor about releasing me. They no longer feared for infection, my physical wounds had healed, I was eating normally. They wanted me to come to the hospital daily for physical therapy and keep taking pain medication at home, but otherwise, I was free to go. Gil signed the papers with an elegant flourish and I suddenly longed to know what his handwriting looked like. Beautiful, I was sure.

I was loaded into a wheelchair although I'd been walking for weeks, and Wesley exuberantly climbed onto my lap to sit. Gil pushed me out and loaded me into the back of an SUV, next to Wesley, and he and his mother climbed into the front. I wondered why I was in the back, but I didn't question. I didn't even have a right to be receiving care from these people.

I watched Vegas fly by me for the first time from the backseat, holding the hand of a child that wasn't mine, wondering what my home looked like. No—Debbie's home. _Debbie's home._

It was a twenty minute drive through traffic before we were pulling into a residential neighborhood. As each house passed by us, I wondered which we were going to… wondering how they'd decorated and how big the… the bed we'd share was. I drew in a shuddering breath at that, and Gil turned to look at me. "Are you okay, Deb?"

I nodded, but I must have looked pale, because his eyes remained narrowed. And thankfully, after he'd pulled into the garage of a two-story home—blue wood, white-gray brick, and white trim—he asked his mother to get Wesley from his car seat and came to my door, helping me out and guiding me gently inside, chiding me softly.

"I know how independent you are, Debbie, and… and I know that we haven't been exactly close… but you have to let me help you. If you aren't feeling good, let me help you… okay?"

I nodded softly, playing up my feeling ill, because I didn't want to reveal that I didn't know where to go in the home, and he guided me gently through the doorway in the garage and up a set of stairs. There was a living room and a bathroom on the floor with the garage, but it looked like a half-bath. Up the stairs, there was a kitchen, dining room, and another living room which was smaller—probably intended to be a formal room—but which served as a playroom for Wesley. Another flight of stairs—were they endless?—and then there was an office in the open landing area at the top of the stairs and three bedrooms. He guided me into the master and I glanced surreptitiously at the other two rooms on my way in—a guest bedroom, but clearly filled with luggage, and a child's room.

He guided me to the bed, and tucked me immediately into the covers, turning on the lamp on the nightstand and then going to turn off the harsh overhead light. He sat on the edge of the bed, next to my hip, and glanced around the room as if trying to find his words, and I took the opportunity to glance around as well. The sheets were silk, and a deep but shiny chocolate brown. The comforter was white, blue, and brown in an intricately swirling pattern. I hoped he'd picked it out, because I didn't like the idea that I liked the bedding Debbie had picked.

He sighed deeply. "My mother is going to come stay with us for a while, to help with Wesley until you're back on your feet… because I can't stay away from the lab anymore." He looked at me as if he expected me to argue, but I simply looked sympathetic, and he expounded. "They found two bodies last night… one was a week old, the other only a few hours… both fit our serial's MO. He's escalating—a kill a week now? I just… They need some help. We can't just wait for him to kill again and the Sheriff's been on my ass because the press wants answers as to why we haven't caught the guy yet."

He slumped his shoulders, looking exhausted, and sighed again. "Anyway, uh… the whole point of this is… I gave her the guest room, and moved my clothes and things back in here, but you don't need to worry about anything… I'll sleep on the couch out in the office, and… and I'll still be close, if you need anything."

I narrowed my eyes in confusion—they hadn't slept in the same bed? And he misinterpreted. "I'm sorry, I know you were happy to have all the closet space, but it's the only way I could figure out to make this all work… I can't take any more time off, and you can't be alone… and Wesley needs someone to watch him, during the day. It's… it's the only way, right now."

And so I nodded, even though I didn't understand, and even though I had no right to be here anyway, because I didn't know how to tell him that he should have his own room, because I wasn't who he believed me to be… and I simply didn't want him to believe that I was angry about it, because he was obviously worried.

He nodded too, and stood, hesitating as if he felt there should be some sort of parting gesture between us but was uncertain what it should be. Giving up, he nodded at me again, and left the room, closing the door behind him.


	9. Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Last update for the night! Also, I put a picture of Sprinkles as my profile picture, so you should look at how cute she is! :) (Once ff updates it...)

Oh! Also, review, yes?

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Chapter Eight:

In that moment, I made a decision. In truth, I had already made it the first time Wesley flung himself into my arms, but I let myself believe what I was doing. Because now I knew that I was not hurting Gil in any way—if things didn't work out, then he was what, in a loveless marriage? I would leave, prove to whomever I had to who I really was, pick up my degree, and go work for a lower level lab. But if it did work out… then I was giving him something he didn't have already. I was giving Wesley a mother, Gil a wife who didn't necessarily deserve him, but who at the very least loved him, and I… I would have my family, for a change.

With this conviction gripping me, I climbed gingerly out of bed and pulled all of my CSI training to the forefront of my mind. If I was going to be Debbie, I needed to know who she was. I started with the master bathroom, digging through the vanity and the drawers. She was a natural brunette, but her hair was naturally straight—she had curlers, but no straightener. That would be a problem. I would have to use her curling iron to straighten my hair every day without him noticing.

She had all her toiletries, so I would have to memorize the brands of everything—shampoo and conditioner, deodorant, perfume, toothpaste, shaving cream… I decided that would be a task for tonight. I didn't want to get caught going through my own things as if I didn't know where anything was. I moved to one of two closets first—it was all of Gil's clothing. I took a moment to breathe his scent in deeply, and then closed the closet and moved to the one that must be De—mine. It was mine now.

She dressed… well, it was a little gaudy, truth be told. Too flashy, too low-cut, too provocative. I would have to find a happy medium between her flair and my understated preferences. I checked the sizes—her shirts were too large, but her pants looked like, with a belt, they'd fit fine. Which mostly meant that… she had bigger boobs than me. Giving the closet one more cursory glance, I moved to the dresser, and found the underwear drawer. She was a cup size bigger. Shit.

I would have to get new ones. …I wondered if Gil would be disappointed. Was he a breast man? …At the very least, I could blame it on weight loss… my doctor had talked to me about how common that was for victims of trauma, telling me to make sure I ate well to keep my strength up.

The underwear wasn't bad, but I was kind of grossed out at the idea… so I looked to see what style she preferred, realizing that I liked them, but they just weren't practical for field work. But then, if I was going to be staying home, they were fine. So I would buy similar pairs, and throw out the old underwear when I thought I could do so sneakily.

I looked through the other drawers—lots of jeans, pajamas, and lounge pants—but these only took up three drawers. There were two others that were filled with a scattered assortment of… well, it looked like junk. But I would have to go through it—I glanced at the door again, and lifted out a shoe box. Inside, there was a small diary, a notebook, and a stack of pictures… of Debbie.

I replaced the books, and simply took out the pictures, sitting on the bed and paging through them. She was quite full of herself—aware of the camera in all the pictures, playing to it. Several were pictures of her with men who were not Gil, in various states of undress… and I noticed a problem that hadn't occurred to me—She had a large tattoo of a butterfly on her lower back. I did not have the tattoo.

Shit.

I had a flower tattoo on my ankle that I couldn't explain either… maybe it was good that he wasn't sleeping with me, at first. …I could try to cover mine up with make-up, but how would I explain the lack of a tramp stamp on my own back? The burns wouldn't have gotten rid of it…

Maybe I would have to go to a tattoo parlor while he was out of town and have them give me her tattoo… but I really, really didn't want that. …Maybe I would wait and see how things worked. If they weren't sleeping in the same bed, then there was every possibility that he wouldn't see me naked for a long time… I probably had a lot to make up for, on Debbie's behalf.

I would just have to make sure that I wore shirts that covered my back, and I would cross that bridge when I came to it. I glanced at the door again, and traded the disgusting pictures for the larger notebook—it was a list of lovers. Not just a list, but pictures accompanied by a play-by-play of dates and sexual acts. It was… rather offensive. I resolved to trash the thing as soon as possible, and if I had had any leftover guilt from my decision to take the place of this wretched woman, it had dissipated.

I only wondered if Gil knew—she certainly hadn't made it difficult to find—and if that was why they didn't sleep in the same bed anymore.

I replaced the hateful book and left the diary, choosing to peruse it when I had time to read it in more depth. I dug deeper, glancing back at the door constantly. I found an impressive collection of vibrators which I would throw whenever I could do it sneakily, and stacks of love letters. I found a jewelry box full of butterfly bracelets engraved with the names of different men. I would be tossing those as well. On top of her dresser—my dresser—were lots of butterfly figurines and a larger, more impressive jewelry box.

Inside of which, I found a lot of nice jewelry, and a box containing an engagement ring and wedding band. I looked inside, hoping it would be engraved and I could be sure that it came from Gil—but no luck. I would have to figure out a way to glean information without making it obvious.

I heard footsteps on the stairs, and quickly put everything away and closed the drawer, hurrying back into bed and curling up in time to hear Gil shh-ing Wesley before slowly opening the door. I turned to look at them, and smiled at Wes, who hopped up on the bed and climbed over to me, snuggling and laying a wet kiss on my cheeks.

I grinned and kissed him back, and then Gil cleared his throat and I turned to look at him. "Supper… is, uh, ready. If… if you're feeling up to it. If not, I can bring it up to you or… or you can have it later."

I shake my head and push the covers back, moving to my feet and considering picking up Wes, but thinking better of it. I wasn't strong enough for that yet. Instead, I offered him my hand, and he took it, sliding down and walking with me over to Gil, who smiled softly and followed up out of the room and down the stairs.

And even though he smiled then—and smiled off and on all through dinner—I felt like there was something strange in his eyes. Something… troubled. It worried me… scared me… but I was committed to this deception, now. I would have to deal with whatever came my way.


	10. Chapter Nine

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Sorry for the long break between updates. It's been a crazy week with getting ready for school to start and giving the bunny her eye drops (she doesn't like them--the scratches on my arms can attest to that...) but I'm back. As soon is starting up again, I doubt I'll be able to update 2-3 stories a day anymore, but I will make an effort to update as frequently as possible. Thanks for all the reviews and support for me and the bun. For those who read most of my stories, I should have an update for 'Destiny' and 'Leave of Absence' tonight. Hopefully. :)

More reviews to motivate me, yes?

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Chapter Nine:

Debbie was different. I didn't know who to discuss such a thing with—my mother hated her, and I wasn't really close to anyone else who knew her well enough to notice the little things. She was different with Wesley, and at first I had chalked it up to almost losing him in the plane crash. After all, she had risked her own life and well-being to carry him safely from the plane, so she obviously loved him a great deal… maybe she felt bad for being a less than attentive mother in the past. Maybe her near-death experience had made her rearrange her priorities…

But still, she wasn't the same, and I wasn't sure all of it could be attributed to the plane crash. Certainly, a traumatic experience like that can make you think about your life but she seemed… more sincere. She smiled sweetly, she tried to help even though she was only just retraining her hands to do the things it had been used to, before the burns, and she… she looked at _me_, differently.

It was affectionate, but still not the same look I'd gotten used to when we were dating… and her eyes, were they just a little darker than they had been before? And she… moved differently. That might be due to the amount of weight she'd lost—her doctor had said it had been dramatic, and considering how small her frame was already… But still, she rarely looked at my mother with animosity, merely looking like she was sad that they didn't get along. And a few days after she came home, I had had to run in to the lab to go over the serial case with the night shift.

When I came home, the light out by the side entrance of the garage, where the garbage cans were kept, was on… my mother and Wesley were asleep, but Debbie wasn't. I had knocked softly and opened the door and, finding her awake, apologized softly for not taking my pajamas out before I left… I simply hadn't thought of it. She had attempted to speak—to tell me it was okay—and ended up giving me a sad half smile of understanding.

I had pulled my pajamas out and asked if she needed anything before bed and whether she'd taken her pain medication, which she assured me she had, and slipped out, wondering why she was still awake. She'd had a book on the nightstand, but Debbie rarely read anything but Vogue so I hadn't put much thought into it. When we dated, she had expressed loving the classics… maybe she was feeling nostalgic.

Still, it didn't sit right with me, and after a moment of hesitation, I moved back downstairs and out the side door—taking a bag of trash with me, for some reason feeling the need to justify my snooping in my own trash—and opened the large, black, city-issued can. There was a black garbage bag on top—obviously taken from the garage rather than under the sink—and I knew I hadn't put it there. With a sigh, not even certain I wanted to know at this point, I pulled it out and put the white trash bag I'd carried out in its place.

I glanced behind myself and tore it open, finding several things which I had seen at one time or another, though I had little interest in looking at them closer… but it seemed strange that they were being thrown out… all of her thongs, her impressive collection of vibrators that she'd begun amassing once I moved to sleep in the spare bedroom. I used to have nightmares filled with the buzzing sounds. There was a notebook which I had opened previously and had no desire to do so again—it had been shocking and painful enough the first time—and stacks of letters from her various admirers, as well as the jewelry box which held their tokens. There were pictures too, which I refused to look at, as well as her diaphragm.

I replaced the bag in the trash and moved back inside, making myself a cup of coffee even though I was headed to bed, mulling over this. Debbie had been a rather manipulative woman from time to time—seducing me even after I'd moved out of the bedroom simply to prove that she still could, despite how much she'd hurt me in the past—but this didn't seem like her.

If she were playing some game—manipulating me into believing she had changed when she hadn't—why would she have thrown these items out at nighttime? Why not do it in front of me? Granted, it was less suspicious that way, but Debbie had never been very subtle.

But if she wasn't playing a game and she was truly turning over a new leaf… what did that mean for our family and my relationship with her? I had no intentions of allowing her back into my heart, nor allowing myself back into her bed. Would she expect such a thing, since she was changing and we'd never divorced? How many indignities did she expect me to endure before I could no longer forgive her? She had saved Wesley's life, and I would stand by her forever for that… but that didn't mean she had any claim on me as a man, anymore.

I sighed, dumping my coffee down the sink, and made my way into the bathroom to change into pajamas and make my bed on the office couch upstairs. It was not as large as the couches downstairs, but I wanted to be close if Wesley had a nightmare or if Debbie needed anything. My mother had been indignant when she discovered that I was sleeping on the couch—shouldn't the woman who had invited strangers into our marriage bed sleep on the couch? But it wasn't in me to suggest such a thing, even if she hadn't been hurt… and even if she didn't seem so very different.

Despite the effort I'd put into putting on pajamas, I eventually wriggled out of them. They wrapped around my legs and made sleep nearly impossible, but I had figured it was the best way to maintain a little dignity while parked on the couch. Debbie and I hadn't seen each other naked, or even close to it, in a long time… and my mother didn't need to exit her bedroom and see my morning wood. But tonight I was exhausted and uncomfortable and so god-damned confused over the woman I was married to who didn't seem like herself anymore—upsetting even if the changes all seemed to be positive.

I don't remember falling asleep, but I remember waking up—Wesley was screaming, and then I was running. When I reached his room, Debbie was already there, trying to wake him up. She looked at me frantically, and then my mother appeared in the doorway behind us. I moved over to him and shook him gently, calling his name, while Debbie ran her hands over his face. After a long moment, his eyes snapped open and his body tensed—he looked between us, uncertain, and then burst into tears, flinging himself into Debbie's arms and burying his face in her shoulder.

I watched her face carefully—her eyes were soft and sad, every feature bent in a loving expression. I turned to my mother and signed that she should go back to bed and that we could handle it, and after she left I turned back to Debbie. She used to sleep naked, or in tiny little lingerie dresses… but she was in sweats and a long-sleeve shirt and socks. …How strange. It certainly wasn't cold up here—the upstairs was the warmest part of the house. Too warm, usually. I sighed and sat in the rocking chair in the corner of his room, watching as she ran her fingers through his hair and hummed softly to him, because she still couldn't speak.

He fell asleep against her chest, his little fists gripping her shirt fiercely. She tried to lay him down, but he whimpered and stirred, so she laid in bed beside him and wrapped her arms around him. When she didn't try to free herself after ten more minutes, I leaned forward in the chair, squinting in the moonlight to see if she was still awake—she was, and her eyes were on me. I realized with a bit of surprise that I was nearly naked, clad only in boxer briefs, but I had nothing immediately handy to cover myself with.

I wished she would look away—I had gone to the gym often, when Debbie and I first started dating, because she was so young and beautiful… I felt like I needed to have a body she could desire, despite our difference in ages. She had been extremely happy with the muscles this effort produced, but I had stopped wasting the time when it became obvious we weren't going to have that kind of relationship anymore. Having her gaze riveted on me now, where my tummy was beginning to go soft, didn't do much to stroke my ego.

I sighed again and moved over to the bed. "Do you want me to help get him off you?"

She shook her head slowly, and at my raised eyebrow, she smirked softly. "I'll stay."

Her voice came out a thick, scratchy, rough whisper, but it was the first phrase she had uttered that I understood without gestures. I wasn't certain, shifting my weight from foot to foot, and then turned and reclaimed my seat in the chair. She gave me a pointed look, obviously sending me back to bed, but I couldn't sleep now… I was worried for my son and baffled by my wife and had adrenaline pumping through my system from the unexpected wake-up call.

"I'm worried about him," I say instead, and her face changes—so much more expressive than I remember it… every twitch of her lips is full of nuance, now—as she looks down at him. She runs her hand through his curls again and looks at me again, nodding sincerely. I exhale, leaning back in the chair and closing my eyes.

"I, uh… his doctor has been… recommending a psychologist. …Maybe we should take him in."

I expected her to resist—she could be rather scathing when it came to mental health—but I did not expect to see fear in her eyes. She hesitated, and then glanced at the boy tucked against her chest, giving him a sad half-smile. She looked at me again. She nodded, and I did too.


	11. Chapter Ten

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: Sorry it's been so long, I've been rather focused on Leave of Absence. I don't want to say it'll get better, because it probably won't. Still though, I am so thankful for every review I've gotten; I loved them. :)

Hope you enjoy this... Let me know!

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Chapter Ten:

I woke up sore from sleeping cramped in Wesley's toddler bed, with him still clinging to my chest, sound asleep. I blinked several times to clear the sleep from my eyes, willing my eyes to focus. And when they did… I drew in a sharp breath silently, feeling myself tremble slightly. I had never seen anything quite so beautiful in my life.

The light of early morning was slipping through Wesley's open curtains—dark blue, with airplanes on them—and fell across his body, leaving half of him illuminated and the other half shadowed. In the light, his curls looked almost golden, and in shadow they were deep and sensuous. His features were relaxed in sleep, yet the effect of the light still made them look as if they'd been carved from marble by one of the masters.

His body, too—something I had not seen, to this point—took my breath away. For a man who worked in a lab… for a man in his forties… I just hadn't expected the chiseled planes and sculpted arms. I was almost grateful for the slight softening around the stomach—not even fat, simply not the well-toned perfection that the rest of his torso was—because it meant that he was human. …It made me feel like I might belong pressed against this man, some day.

I felt a pang of guilt for deceiving this man—he had been so good and so kind—but the thought of going back to nothingness and giving up the beautiful little boy pressed to my breast and the god of a man before me…

His eyes fluttered open—how perfect, did angelic men like this do anything without gentle grace?—and he looked around himself in slight confusion before centering his gaze on me. I swallowed, blushing at being caught staring. "Morning…" I cringed. My voice used to be one of the few things I liked about myself, because it reminded me of my mother and the musical cadence she'd always spoken with. Now it was deeper, rougher… like gravel and sandpaper. The pain of hearing it far outweighed the pain of speaking.

He sat up slowly, stretching his body upwards, probably miserable from sleeping in the chair all night. "…Morning."

He sat in silence for a moment, surveying the pair of us. There was so much in the depths of those eyes—I tried to decipher it all. I knew confusion, doubt, hurt, uncertainty… and I thought there might also be suspicion too, which worried me. What would happen to me if my deception were discovered? She swallowed. "You, uh… You can give him to me, if you wanted to go… shower."

I pursed my lips. "You go… Let him sleep."

He looked like this frustrated him. He made an impatient sound in the back of his throat. "You've got to be uncomfortable in that little bed, Debbie. Stop playing games and give him to me."

I blinked in surprise, wide-eyed. Playing games? I frowned, still avoiding speaking, and he groaned, standing up and heading to leave the room, apparently having run out of patience. At the door, he paused, and then turned swiftly, as if he'd just changed his mind in the space of a moment. He closed the door softly behind his back and his eyes caught mine.

"Debbie… I don't know what you're playing at. I… I don't know why you're different, or what your motive is, or… or what you think you're going to get out of it. But, so help me god, if you let Wes believe you're going to be super mom from now on, and then you… you… go back to barely tolerating him…" His hands were shaking, his fingers curled as if wrapped around something. He sighed angrily.

"Do that, and you lose everything. Understand me? Your affairs are enough to grant me grounds for divorce, and anyone who knows us would say that Wes is better off with me. No more meal ticket while you play the town bicycle simply because you gave birth… You… you are not going to make this worse for him than it already is."

He swung the door open and left, and I felt tears stinging my eyes, even though I knew that the words weren't truly directed at me. I heard the sound of a shower running and let my eyes close slowly, thinking through the things I needed to do. I had found a laptop in a case under Debbie's bed the previous day. When Gil left for work and Wes and Gil's mother took their afternoon nap, I would pull it out and see what else I could learn about Debbie.

I still had several unanswered questions, and soon I would need access to a car and a shopping mall. One couldn't go without a bra indefinitely, and I had been wearing the pairs of Debbie's underwear closest to the bottom and the most conservative. From what I knew of her, they would have been the least worn. Ugh.

And then… then I would have to talk to Gil about the psychologist for Wesley, because the more I thought about it, the more I thought it was a really good idea. Shrinks had never worked for me because I'd been dragged to them by foster parents who had to look like they were taking care of my needs in order to get their monthly check. Wesley… he would have the support of two parents who loved him and… he wouldn't be dealing with the same kinds of trust issues.

I must have drifted off again, because I didn't hear the shower turn off or Gil approach. I jumped half a foot when he cleared his throat in the doorway. Our eyes met again, and despite the way he'd yelled at me, I felt a fluttering in my stomach. He pursed his lips, his fingertips aligning in a bridge, reminding me of the childhood finger play game my older brother had played with me to get me to stop crying while we hid in the attic and listened to my mother screaming below us. _This is the church, this is the steeple…_

"I, uh… I'm sorry, Debbie, for… what I said. It was out of line. I…" He looked down. "I know that all of this is… so much harder for you but it's… it's hard for me too. I, uh…" He swallowed, and seemed to be gathering his thoughts. When he looked up, his eyes were no longer uncertain. "I guess what I'm saying is that… as long as you're treating Wesley right, that's all I care about. It isn't fair of me to get mad at you for the things that passed between us so long ago…"

The right corner of his mouth twitched up in a half-smile. "I, uh… I can take him, now… if you wanted to shower."

I didn't know what to say, so I nodded. This man was apologizing for being angry with the wife who had walked all over him and probably broken his heart… saying it wasn't fair of him to make their arguments about the wrongs he'd endured in their marriage. I wanted to cry… to scream at the injustice, to tell him he _should_ be mad at me! …her. He moved over to me, bending down gently to take him. When he tugged and Wesley didn't come free, his hands gripping my shirt tightly, he set him back down and looked at me for help.

I slowly sat up, putting his weight on my lap and gently freeing his tight little fists. Gil's hands slipped under his arms, brushing softly against my chest as he did so, and pulled him gently from me. I blushed, noting the slight reddening around the edge of his ears, and Wesley whimpered until he was turned, his face pressed to his Daddy's chest. He curled up to him and slipped back to sleep, and the look on Gil's face looking down at his son had me blinking back tears again.

Who could not love a man who looked at his child that way?

He gave me another uncomfortable half-smile and turned to leave, and suddenly it felt like I needed to say something. Anything. I just couldn't let him leave in silence.

I winced, trying to make my voice loud enough to catch his attention as he was leaving. "…Gil?" He turned to look at me, soft surprise in his eyes. I bit my bottom lip. "When you… have time, um, around your case… we should take Wes… to the psychologist."

His eyebrows twitched together, and the expression in his bottomless blues was puzzled, but the small smile on his face was genuine. He nodded softly. "I'll make the call." I nodded, and he did too, and then they were gone.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and surprise! Here's another update, much sooner than I expected. :) Sillym3 pointed out that I didn't specify that Grissom was the one with sensuous curls in the beginning of the last chapter. :) For those who were confused, she was not checking out a child, and I'll fix it eventually. I want to see if I can update Leave of Absence before I have to leave for class, otherwise I'd do it now. I'm pretty lazy when it comes to proof-reading, so I'm sorry about that.

Let me know what you think of the chapter! :)

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Chapter Eleven:

I took Wes downstairs with me, but I didn't relax until I heard the sounds of the shower running in the master bedroom. I made myself toast and cereal one-handed, feeling that if Wes needed a little extra comfort, it was certainly the least I could do for him. It was early—I would usually be waking up now, not finished showering and about to eat. I pulled the serial files from my briefcase, but didn't open them, sitting down to eat my serial, simply staring at their manila exterior, my left arm tucked under Wes on my shoulder, my right arm slowly bringing spoonfuls of Cheerios to my mouth.

For what felt like the hundredth time, I went through what I knew, trying to figure this guy out. They were all women. The first victim had been 29, the second 23. All others fell between those ages. They did not look alike—they were different races, different hair and eye colors, different body builds… they lived in different places, had gone to different schools, entered dramatically different careers. They had not been in Vegas for the same reasons, either.

One had lived here, another lived in Henderson. One had been a flight attendant just spending the night, another was a tourist, and yet another had been passing through—on her way from Pheonix to San Diego. She and her boyfriend had stopped for a night in Vegas to take in a show… she'd gone down the hall to get a soda from a vending machine and hadn't come back.

It just… didn't seem to make sense. Was he unparticular about the who, so long as she was of a certain age? If so, why these women? Why not someone easier to apprehend than a woman twenty feet away from her boyfriend's door, and in a hotel with surveillance cameras? No, he had been aware of the cameras… prepared for the act of getting her from the building. He had been immensely prepared for every girl. So I couldn't believe they were random.

I jumped when I felt my mother's hand on my shoulder—I'd stopped eating, simply staring at the files. She frowned and signed. "Let me take Wesley, I'll go rock him for a while… you finish eating. You look tired, Gil."

I nodded, passing my son to my mother. I was tired. I was tired and I was confused. We had looked into each girl's background, and the only thing we knew so far was that they had all, for a short period of time, lived in San Francisco, or one of its suburbs. They fell neatly into a space of about ten years, but… but it was impossible to look deeper than that. None so far had attended the same school, or even lived in the same suburb. Two lived in San Francisco but, based on schools attended, had lived on opposite sides of the city.

There was no reason to believe they'd known each other. We'd shown each victim's significant others pictures of the other girls, but none of them had recognized the others.

Although, now that I came to think of it, the next of kin for each of them had been a husband or fiancé or boyfriend and ex-boyfriend she was still sleeping with… none of them had had parents come to ask for them. Maybe I could follow up that angle…

I groaned, pushing my cereal away and biting angrily into my toast. We wouldn't even know they were serials, based on what we had, if the crime scenes hadn't been so similar. They hadn't been killed in the same ways, but they'd all been left curled up in the fetal position in their own beds, naked, their hair covering their faces. The woman who had lived in Henderson had had short hair, and from what we could tell—and Catherine's opinion—the hair extensions she had in were not put in by someone who knew how to do such a thing. She believed he'd put them in so he could use them to cover her face.

I jumped again when Debbie slid into a chair beside me. She wasn't wearing a scarf over her hair for the first time in a long time, and I was surprised to see how much it had grown. There was still only about an inch, but it fell flat and made her look much healthier. It was a man's hair cut, sure, but she didn't look like a cancer patient now… and the thin, silkiness of it almost made it look chic. Like it was short and dramatic intentionally.

I glanced at her rather reluctantly, still feeling guilty for yelling at her this morning, but she smiled softly. "Where's Wes?"

I couldn't help a small smile—she had spoken more today than she had since the accident. Her voice was still rough, and would always be different, but it was getting better. "My mother took him."

I glanced back at the offensive file and then back to my toast, lifting the second piece to my mouth. She pressed and released her fingertips to the counter top several times in what looked like a nervous habit, though I had never noticed this particular one before… and I noticed those things. I was a poker player.

"…You worried about the serial case?"

My eyes snapped from her hands to her eyes, again striking me as being just the slightest bit darker than I had remembered, before the crash. _Why_ was she so different? "Why do you say that?"

She shrugged, looking at her hands as they continued the press and release. "You weren't eating when I came in… you were… staring. At the case file. …Do you want to talk about it?"

I frowned. That was strangely perceptive and… caring, for Debbie. "I, uh… You know I can't talk to you about an open case."

To my surprise, she shook her head, a strange sort of half smile on her face. It was alluring, but unfamiliar. Had she ever smiled like that before? I mean, half-smiles, yes, but precisely the way she was now? Her lips expressive and her dimples teasing? How could a plane crash change someone so much?

"That's not exactly true… technically I couldn't be called to testify that you had. In the eyes of the law, we're one person… and a person can't be forced to testify against themselves." She puckered her lips and I was overwhelmed with everything they didn't say. "Who would I tell? I'm confined to the house…"

This was just too much to deal with. She was asking me to confide in her… trust her? She was bringing attention to our marriage and referring to us as being one person? …How had she even known that law? Debbie had always found my job uninteresting and rather distasteful. After decomps I was required to shower with lemons at the lab before coming home…

"I don't value the rule because I fear the consequences of breaking it. I can't discuss it, Debbie."

She frowned but nodded, looking at her hands again. "I, uh… just thought I could help, I guess."

My eyes narrowed. "Help? How could you help?"

She looked up quickly, and her eyes looked almost indignant at my question. Why?

"Well… I just thought, you know, you all are looking for specific things, right? The normal trademarks of a serial killer. But obviously if you haven't caught him yet, what you're looking for can't be one of those things… I just thought, you know… a fresh mind, unclouded by what you think you should be looking for… I might see something unexpected, simply because I'm not predisposed to look for certain things."

I wavered, briefly, because she was damn convincing. But it took only a moment to remind myself exactly who I was talking to. No matter how different she seemed, she was not a woman I could trust. I had a tough time believing that people could change—I had seen too many repeat offenders. If it was possible, and if she had in fact done it, it would take a lot longer to convince me of such a thing, plane crash or no.

I shook my head. "Thanks anyway, but rules are rules… I'm gonna get going in to the lab, see what we can do with this…"

She frowned. "It's a little early… you don't usually leave for another twenty minutes."

I looked at her curiously, and she shrugged, breaking my gaze. I raised an eyebrow. "I know." She looked surprised, and I felt a strange sort of victory in that moment. I might feel guilty for being mean to her, but all things considered, there would be no guilt attached to leaving her time to herself when she had used the excuse that I was suffocating her to be able to get away for her affairs. I put my dishes in the sink, called goodbye to my mother, and then said an awkward goodbye to Debbie as well, before heading out to work.

The problem was, I did feel guilty. God damned woman and her mind games.


	13. Chapter Twelve

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Which makes me sad, every day. :(

A/N: Here's another chapter. As requested, Sarafly, there's some interaction! :)

Sillym, I'm sorry if I sounded offended or angry. I did not think you were making a smart assed comment, I was amused that I described a child's curls as sensuous. :) So no worries, yes?

Reviews make me happy. And I need some happy to counterbalance the sad that comes with the not-owning-ness of my Griss and my Sara. :)

* * *

Chapter Twelve:

Gil's mother had bought Wesley a giant paint set when she'd come into town to help after the crash… and the two of them were quite occupied with the mess in the kitchen. I didn't know her first name yet, which was a problem—Gil always called her 'mom'. I would have to look into it. But she was an amazing artist, that much was clear even in children's paint and low-quality brushes. I excused myself, saying I was feeling tired, and went up to my bedroom, digging out the lap top from under Debbie's bed.

It wasn't password protected, thankfully, and within minutes I was sitting with the internet open, scrolling through her history. I found her online banking, committed the bank name to memory, and went in. It was only under my name, and there was a ridiculous amount of money there. Apparently, even not working, Debbie had had a healthy allowance. Either that or she was actually a prostitute, rather than just a cheating tramp. I looked to see what personal information was stored on the website.

Her security question was her maiden name: Marlin. Like the fish. I repeated it to myself several times, and then opened one of the last checks she had written. They had scanned an image of the check and my gaze turned to her signature. I couldn't write better than a third grader yet, but my physical therapist was having me practice writing every night. I wanted to at least know how she formed her letters so I could learn to replicate them.

Satisfied, I looked into tattoo removal methods, something I knew very little about. Was it possible to have had a tattoo as large and colorful as hers removed without scarring? What my research told me was yes, possible, although not always probable. And even then, it was expensive. But with the amount in Debbie's bank account, it wasn't unbelievable. Maybe that would be my explanation, when or if he ever saw the lack of tattoo on my back. I had had it removed, in San Francisco, right before the crash.

Maybe. Knowing Gil, he would have strange and unexpected knowledge over the precise limitations of tattoo removal and my whole lie would fall through… I needed to talk to an expert. Someone.

Sighing, I glanced back at the amount in the back account. It wasn't like it was drug money… chances were, it was money Gil had earned. And if I didn't use it—if I asked Gil for money, he would wonder why I didn't use the money in my account. I resigned myself, and did some online shopping—bras that would fit, new underwear, from the same stores and in the same styles as hers… well, somewhat the same… I didn't love thongs, and since she'd worn other styles, I thought it was safe to just wear the other kinds—six pairs of pants that would fit without a belt, and a ridiculous number of shirts that wouldn't be baggy in the chest.

I tried to merge her preferences with my own—comfortable and modest but still attention-grabbing. I wasn't used to buying such expensive name-brand clothing, but it was what she wore. When I finally finished, I realized I didn't know the mailing address. I looked us up in an online directory and it looked familiar—I was pretty sure it was the address that had been on the love letters I'd thrown away. I typed it in, as well as Debbie's bank information, and clicked to complete the sales.

I bit my lip. Well, Gil would certainly believe I was Debbie when the piles of expensive clothing was delivered, although I didn't like the idea that I was reinforcing the negative perception he and his mother had of me. But I really did need real clothes—I was getting well enough that I could leave the house during the day soon. Take Wesley to his appointment, or the park…

And when I was well, maybe his mother would leave, and I could have him to myself. …Certainly we were more likely to get together—or was it get back together?—when we were alone. I glanced back at the computer again. Now that I thought of it, I should really learn ASL. I was tired of not knowing what she said to him when she didn't want me to know what she was saying. How could I defend myself when I didn't know which accusations were laid against me?

And so, with a sigh—Why had I thought it would be easy to assume the identity not only of a stranger's wife, but the wife of a man who was the best in the country at discovering the truth? I pulled up a diagram of the alphabet… I would need to start small.

Gil came home for lunch that day, which was rare. He usually ate at the lab, or grabbed a bite at the diner, from what I could gather from brief dinner conversations. He was telling his mother, not me, but he didn't sign it because he felt like that would be rude… excluding me. I got the feeling he wasn't used to eating with me. …Debbie. Me.

Regardless, he came home, and Wesley and Gil's mother had already eaten and were asleep. I was eating a sandwich in the kitchen and reading one of his forensic journals. It was one I subscribed to, and I had obviously missed the last few issues. I was caught up in a new study on the percent likelihood of finding epithelials on different household objects, and where. For example, remote controls. You were more likely to find usable DNA between the keys than on top of them, or along the edge of the battery cover. Which was obvious, but the percentages were new.

If everything I was doing now fell through, I had to have something to fall back on, didn't I?

I didn't hear him come in, because I was considering my options. Even if I completed the field exam, I probably couldn't get hired at the Vegas lab—they'd want Harvard graduates with recommendations from their Berkeley professors, not a stay-at-home-mom who happens to have a nursing degree. But maybe the field exam could get me in on a cadet level… or I could work as a CSI in a small town near here. It would be a commute, but once I showed home competent I was…

I shook my head. No. Debbie would never had shown an interest in becoming a CSI. If I wanted Gil and Wesley—and believe me, I did—then I had to let that dream die. It was just the only meaning I'd had in my life until the plane crash changed everything.

"What's wrong?"

I must have jumped nearly a foot in the air because Gil actually laughed—not chuckled or smiled wryly or giggled while playing with Wesley—he laughed, out loud. I would have enjoyed the sound much more had my heart not been pounding against my ribs.

"Oh god! You scared me!"

He grinned. "I see that… I'm sorry I snuck up on you. …You were shaking your head about something… everything okay?"

"Huh? Oh. …Yeah, no… everything's good. I was, uh… just thinking."

He raised an eyebrow, turning to the fridge to pull out sandwich ingredients as well. "Oh? What about?"

Shit. Shit shit shit. "About? …Oh, um…" I shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. "This…article." It was all I could do not to cringe. Great. Good job Sidle, draw attention to the magazine you have no business reading. That'll help right now.

As expected, he turned his gaze to the magazine, and frowned half-way through pulling his bread slides from the bread bag. "Are you reading a forensics journal?"

I blushed. What could I say? It wasn't like I could deny it now. "Oh… yeah, I…" I shrugged again, aware that I was probably doing too much shrugging. "I was bored, saw it here… thought I'd just scan it but, you know, it's… it's kinda interesting."

His frown deepened but his movements resumed. He placed his bread on his plate, twirling the bag in lieu of a twisty tie, and returned it to its place in the pantry. He glanced at me while unscrewing the cover to the mayo, and then finally spoke. "The, uh… the magazine wasn't here. It was in the living room, in a big stack of magazines… some of which are yours that you missed while in the hospital, so I know you haven't read them yet. And… you always said my job was so boring you couldn't stand to hear about my day."

I frowned. Debbie was such a bitch. Why on earth had this amazing man married her? That, however, was a question for another time. He had caught me in a lie. I drew in a deep breath—lies only seemed plausible when you had a reason for them. "Well, I…" I looked down at the counter top. "I was trying to… you know, never mind. How's the serial case coming?"

He put his dirty knife in the dishwasher and turned back to his sandwich. "Fine. What were you trying to do?"

I bit on my bottom lip. "Well, we… we barely talk and… I thought, you know… if I knew something about your job… maybe I could participate more when you… talk about your day. We could… have something to talk about."

He stopped midway through resealing the turkey bag, looking up at me. "You… were reading something you hate… because it would give us something to talk about?"

I blushed from embarrassment. It sounds like bullshit even to me. At least the blush would help the lie. I shook my head. "It doesn't matter… Did you want to see what Wesley painted today?"

"No." He said, unwrapping a slice of cheese. "It matters. _Why_ do you want to talk to me?"

I sighed—this day had to come eventually, and skirting the issue wasn't going to help. I might as well meet it head on. "You're my husband."

"And?"

I closed my eyes. "And so I think that we should converse daily, and about more than Wesley."

"_Why?_"

I scowled, idly thinking that I was fortunate for the plane crash—I would have gone crazy working for this man. "Because… because I don't like the way we… are. We… don't have a real relationship."

A little too angrily, he slammed the last piece of bread to his sandwich, making me flinch, and turned to look at me again. "…And why does this matter now, but it didn't before the plane crash?"

I drew in a deep breath. Well, at least he'd practically given me the answer I needed for that last one. "I, uh… I see the world differently, now."

He sat down in a huff, sliding his plate over. "Oh? I find that rather hard to believe…"

Maybe this was why we'd hardly talked—because he was so busy holding in all his anger that if he actually let himself go and had a conversation, he would probably scream at me. I lifted my chin defiantly—anger or no anger, if he was asking a question, I would answer him.

"Well, why don't you go through a damned plane crash and tell me how it feels to relive every regret you've ever had while you stumble through smoke and debris, knowing you can't stop no matter how tired or hurt or miserable, because you are the only way the most important little person in your arms has any shot at having a life full enough to have regrets of his own someday… and then you can tell me that you see the world exactly the way you did before all of that."

He raised an eyebrow and turned an almost embarrassed look to his sandwich. "I'm sorry, Debbie."

I looked at what was left of my own, waiting long enough to make sure my voice was calm. "...You don't need to be sorry, Gil. You…" I sighed. "You have a right to be angry and… and I have a lot to make up for. But… but I'd really like to… to be your wife, again."

The corner of his mouth turned up, but not in happiness. He looked… disbelieving. Sad. "I, uh… I don't know if we can ever go back to that, Debbie. Sometimes you… you can't go back to the way things were."

I swallowed, feeling tears swim in my eyes unexpectedly. He had not yelled nor spoken harshly, and I had expected as much from him for an answer… but for some reason, I still felt awful at his words. "Maybe… Maybe we can't go back, but… We can move forward. Have something… better than we used to."

He stared at me for a long moment, and I saw so many indefinable emotions in his eyes that I felt lightheaded trying to decipher them quickly before they dissipated. Then he shook his head again, slowly. "I just don't think so, Debbie. …I, uh… I'll eat up in my office."

I shook my head, standing, blinking rapidly at the tears. "No, I… I'm tired anyway. You eat. …I hope you have a… good rest of the day."

I left the room, racing up to my own and letting the tears seep down over my cheeks. I had given up everything and, according to him, it was all for nothing. …I had absolutely nothing left.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! I love them! :)

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Chapter Thirteen:

I woke up in mid-afternoon and went downstairs to the sounds of Wes' videos on. But he wasn't watching them… not really. Gil's mother was reading a romance novel in the arm chair, assuming the little boy was occupied. She wasn't being neglectful; she probably just wanted a minute to herself. I felt guilty that I'd let her take care of him all day. I did still get tired, but if she could nap when he did, so could I. I resolved myself to being more present, even if it meant I had less time to research who Debbie was. After all, half of the reason I was risking all of this was Wes.

I sat on the couch beside him, but he didn't move. Didn't glance at me, didn't shift his weight, didn't blink. "Wes, hon… Are you okay?"

He frowned and climbed into my lap, tucking his face between my neck and shoulder. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him, thoroughly concerned. I wondered if Gil had made an appointment for him yet. We'd only discussed it this morning, but now that the idea was in my head, it felt like it not only made sense, but was entirely necessary. Urgent, really.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. In theory, Gil would be home in about an hour and a half. In truth, it would probably be several hours. He'd been working long, long hours on the serial case. …Maybe, after he went to bed, I could look through the file. Just to see if I noticed something he didn't. It wasn't likely, but fresh eyes… a fresh perspective…

I could help, and then he would be home more.

But then… if he caught me, what would my excuse be? He would be so angry, that much I knew. …It wasn't really worth the risk.

Still, I glanced through his magazines, making note of the articles within them, so I would know what I could say I understood and have an explanation as to why. I had done some thinking since lunch time, and I came to the conclusion that of course he wouldn't accept my words easily. Of course not, considering who he believed I was… and I could handle that. It should be expected.

What I needed to do was prove that the plane crash had changed me. Not just tell him, show him.

Which meant that I would have to treat him like the beloved husband I saw him as, and be patient when I wasn't treated like the beloved wife I wanted to be…

He came home late, past 8:00, and his mother immediately jumped to her feat, hugged and kissed his cheek like he was still a child, and bustled off to the kitchen to pull her meatloaf out of the oven. I found myself wondering if I would do that to Wes, when he was a man. I wondered if I'd still be around, when Wes was a man.

When she left, he turned his gaze on me, sitting on the couch, Wesley still clinging to me, wide awake but silent, another of his magazines spread on the coffee table before me. The corner of his mouth turned up, in resignation more than happiness, and he nodded to me, looking like he was going to head into the kitchen after his mother.

"Gil." He turned to me, surprised, a look of apprehension on his face. Probably thinking, as I was, of the fight we'd had earlier in the day. But I didn't want to fight. "I, uh… I was just wondering if you'd… gotten the number for the psychologist. For Wes."

"Oh." He sighed, coming over and sitting on the couch beside me and pulling the boy from me. Wes curled up to him the way he'd been to me. I frowned. "Yeah, I… I called and left a message asking for it. I missed him earlier today, but I have a voice mail. He might have left it in there. I'll check it after dinner and give him a call."

I nodded, slowly. "Are, um… How are we… going to do this?" He narrowed his eyes. I cleared my throat, knowing that the scratchiness I heard in my voice was unrelated. "Well, you… you've been working twelve, thirteen hour days. Did you want me to take him alone or…?"

He shook his head, slowly. "I guess I hadn't… thought about it. No, I… I'll make it a point to be there. I… Should I meet the two of you there or… Do you think you're up to driving yet?"

I swallowed, having planned this answer out ahead of time. "I, uh… I get… confused, sometimes."

His eyebrows shot up and he looked concerned. "Confused?"

I tilted my head, one shoulder shrugging slightly. "Before I left the hospital, my doctor told me it was… to be expected, for a while. It's… most of the time I'm fine. Just… occasionally I feel… disoriented or… or the sequence of events is… hard. You'll say something and I'll feel like… I don't know, like it's… off. He said that, with time, it should go away on its own… it's an after effect of the trauma."

He looked thoughtful, but I wasn't afraid. He could research it if he wanted, my doctor had told me that very thing. Eventually, he nodded. "…Okay, then… I'll swing by and pick you two up whenever we get it scheduled."

He rubbed Wes' back softly while I nodded, grateful I wouldn't be attempting to navigate the streets of Las Vegas off memorized internet directions. Then it occurred to me… "You know, I… I don't have anything. My purse, my driver's license, anything… maybe, if… if you could manage a day off, you could help me. Take me around to get everything replaced…"

I tried to keep the vulnerability out of my voice, but I clearly failed, because his expression softened. "Once we wrap up the serial case, Debbie, I promise I'll take a day off and we'll get you everything you need. Okay?"

I nodded—even when he believed I had been so terrible to him, he was still so kind. I could not believe what an amazing man he was. "Thank you."

He nodded and, after a brief pause, seemed to get uncomfortable and stood, keeping Wes tight to his body and tilted his head to the kitchen. I nodded, and he went before me, leaving me to follow in his wake.

I wanted to offer to help—I wanted to simply help more period, now that my strength was up—but she was done with everything and… neither of them seemed to expect me to help with anything. They didn't even ask. I wasn't sure if that was because of my injuries or if Debbie had simply been that lazy. So I sat down at the small table in the kitchen that was always used as opposed to the big dining table in the dining room. I wasn't sure why we used the room as a dining room if, in fact, we didn't _use_ it.

Gil slid Wesley into a booster seat secured to one of the chairs at the end of the table and sat himself across from me, an open chair for his mother at his right and my left. I smiled at the boy but he didn't respond, looking down at the table and the sippy cup waiting for him there. After a minute, he lifted it to drink his milk and I sighed, glancing at the table where all the food was resting.

The meatloaf had been set down between his mother and me. I took the pan, lifting out a piece that had already been cut and passed it to Gil, who had a strange look on his face. I raised an eyebrow, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. I was confused, and simply turned to the other items on the table, finding myself extremely grateful for the large salad in front of me. I hadn't given up meat entirely, though I was pretty squeamish. We'd watched a video of insect activity on a decomposing pig for one of my grad level forensics classes and ever since I'd had a hard time with it.

I took as much of the salad as I could, aware of Gil's eyes on me again. This time, I didn't meet them. I wasn't going to keep questioning his stares only to be disregarded.

The meal was quiet. Gil's mother asked about his day and the case, and he told her a little. I wondered if he would have told her more if he still believed I didn't listen to him or care to speak with him, because other night he had been far more expressive. Despite Wesley's long nap, he was yawning within an hour after supper, and I scooped him up to take him for a bath and bed. Usually Gil's mother did this, but I wanted to.

In the guest bathroom, it was easy enough to find a basket full of tub toys and to locate his bubble bath and baby soap and shampoo. By the time I was turning the water off, he was sitting in the water, surrounded by ducks and boats, and playing a little, which felt reassuring. I leaned forward against the edge of the tub, talking to him and watching him play and just touching him. His baby skin was unbelievably soft and I felt as though I would never tire of running my fingers through his curls or gently brushing against the skin of his shoulders.

He was absolutely perfect… flawless in my eyes… and I wondered vaguely if this was what motherhood felt like. Real motherhood. I didn't think I could love Wesley more, even if he had been mine by blood as well.

Gil came in about fifteen minutes later, when I was just thinking about getting Wesley to put the toys aside so I could wash his hair. I turned in surprise at the footsteps, and then raised both eyebrows when he sat on the floor across from me, at the other end of the tub. "Daddy!" Wesley said, looking at me and pointing, as if I needed clarification.

I beamed. "Yep, that is Daddy. Did you tell him 'hi'?"

He smiled and looked at Gil. "Hi!"

Gil chuckled. "Hi Wes. Are you playing with your ducks?"

"Kack Kack!" He said, attempting a quacking noise, and I smiled at him softly before turning my eyes to meet Gil's serious ones.

"I got us an appointment the day after tomorrow—he just had a cancellation, apparently, so we were lucky. The next open slot wasn't for a couple of weeks."

I smiled. "Good. I'm really glad."

He nodded, and after a moment I turned back to Wes, picking up his shampoo. I nearly dropped it when Gil spoke again. "So… what exactly are you playing at?"

My head snapped to him. "I'm sorry?"

He sighed in frustration, like my words had made his head hurt. "You… you hate my mother's meatloaf. You've never made a point of hiding it. What one earth do you think will change by pretending now?"

I raised an eyebrow, trying to disguise the relief on my face. "I was just being polite. I wasn't pretending… I took a small slice, and then ate salad…"

"Polite!" He yelled. Wesley jumped, as did I, and then whimpered, his bottom lip sticking out and tears filling his eyes. Gil winced and repeated, "Polite…" in a whisper, as if that would change the boy's reaction. I made a clucking noise with my tongue, expressing disapproval, and slid Wesley along the tub bottom and over to me.

"Hey, it's okay baby. Daddy didn't mean to shout…" I kissed his forehead, hugged his wet chest to mine, disregarding the water left behind on my shirt. That seemed to help. I poured shampoo in agitation, spreading it through his curls while Gil gathered himself.

"…You've never cared about being polite to her."

I scowled, feeling slightly defensive, though I knew it didn't make sense. "Yes, and a lot of good that did me. I'm trying to turn my life around and she's bad talking me to my husband."

He frowned. "She not… How did… Debbie, she…" He stopped, and I almost laughed at the confusion on his face.

"I'm not an idiot—it's been pretty obvious. Anyway, it… it's fine. I deserve it. But that doesn't mean I have to keep provoking it, do I? …Tilt your head back, honey…" Wesley did so, and I poured water from her forehead back over his hair, careful to avoid any dripping the wrong direction and getting in his eyes. Gil sat quietly, watching me as I pooled some of his liquid soap in my hands and helped him to stand, sudsing up his body and then having him sit back down to rinse them all off.

It wasn't until I was packing up his tub toys the Gil spoke again. "I know that… that you think you're… turning over a new leaf, Debbie. And, where Wes is concerned, I think it's amazing, but… But you need to know that we're not going to go back to the way we were. I told you that. No matter how much you've changed, I… I can't do it again. …I feel like… maybe you should know that, before you go to the trouble."

I glanced at him, setting the toy basket up back in the cupboard and retrieving a big, fluffy towel from it. "Are you saying that because you believe the changes are a ploy or because you don't think you could ever love me again?"

I tugged the drain from the tub, standing Wesley up again. I wrapped the towel around his little body, careful to keep the edges from dipping into the lowering water level, and lifted him to stand on the bath mat between Gil and I. Gil sighed deeply while I rearranged the towel around him, making sure it covered him from shoulder to toes. "…Both. I… I don't believe you but, honest or not, it… it isn't going to happen."

I looked at him seriously for a moment and then back at Wes, picking him up and cradling his body like he were a much smaller child so that he could stay wrapped up and warm. "Well, then I guess I hope that you're wrong. …The human capacity for love is amazing—people love far too deeply and too well and with too much forgiveness. It's mankind's most redeeming feature. …And, if you're not wrong… I'm still better off being the kind of mother that Wes can be proud of." I held his gaze, briefly, and then turned to the boy in my arms.

"Should we go get jammers on?" At his smile, I beamed--amazed that he had been playing and smiling for almost half an hour without going silent and motionless--moving to the door and out of the room, still talking to him. "Yeah… we'll get a clean diaper, put on some warm jammies, and curl into bed. Should we read a book before ni-night?"

I didn't hear Gil move until nearly a half an hour later—after diaper and pajamas and stories and cuddling. He came in to tuck Wes in and give him a goodnight kiss. And after turning on his little night light—a ladybug that cast the whole room in a soft, red glow—and leaving the room, we both paused in the hall. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't. We stood for at least a full minute, maybe two, just standing and staring.

And then I looked down and sighed. "I'll see you in the morning." I headed to my room, leaving him, unmoving, in the hallway.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: So I'm posting several at a time, because it hasn't let me post all day. I've finally just figured out a way around it. :(

Please still each chapter or, at least, make your one a long one. :) Yes? Maybe? Pretty peas?

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Chapter Fourteen:

I awoke bright and early Friday morning. A moment of gazing at the ceiling and listening told me that I was the first to wake and though I hesitated, I eventually rose out of bed and made my way down to the kitchen. The house was peaceful and quiet in the early morning light, and for the first time since before the plane crash, I found a strange sense of peace come over me. I started coffee, got the paper, and sat down to enjoy the morning. Today we'd be taking Wesley to see the psychologist. Today he'd start getting better.

I was joined shortly thereafter by a tousled Gil—his curls unruly, his eyes bleary, his pajamas wrinkled. It made me sad to think of him sleeping curled up on a couch rather than a real bed. Would it be out of line to suggest he come back to the room? I could even argue my platonic intentions—he was older than me, by at least ten years… sleeping on the couch had to be hard on his back. What would his reaction be…? I seemed to be pushing his limits a rather lot lately.

Maybe I should back off for a while.

He stumbled into the kitchen, blinking at me. "What are you doing up?"

I gave him a strange look. "I woke up… and felt like coffee." I folded the paper over, bringing the crossword to rest in front of me as he moved to the coffee pot, apparently needing the caffeine as much as I had. I snatched a pen from the counter top, glancing down. One across—

"Are you doing my crossword?" His voice was half incredulous, half surprise. I faltered.

"Oh, I just… you haven't been doing them, the last few mornings. I'm sorry."

There. That didn't give too much away. He frowned. "I've been leaving early… You know I love the crosswords."

I didn't, actually, but I'm glad I know it now. I smiled. "I'm sorry, Gil. Here, I'll do the Sudoku, and pass you the crossword in a minute."

His eyes narrowed. "You hate math."

I smiled. "This is less about math, more about logic. The numbers are really just place holders."

He scowled. "I know how Sudoku works."

"Then you should know it doesn't matter whether I like math or not." I loved math. It was the freaking language of the universe. How did this man marry a woman who hated math?

He set his cup down rather aggressively. "I'm gonna grab a shower before Wes wakes up. I assume you'll be done by the time I get out?"

I raised my eyebrows, not looking at him, forcing myself to remain unconcerned. "I should be."

He stormed upstairs to shower and I turned my attention back to my puzzle. I knew that I should be more concerned—I knew that—but I had openly admitted to being different after the crash. And I'd found some of Debbie's school stuff the previous day while Wes and Gil's mother slept. She's graduated with honors, top of her class. Debbie might have been promiscuous, but she was every bit as smart as Gil or I. So I wasn't going to act like an idiot. If I'd pretended to be an airhead because I thought it made me more attractive, a plane crash would certainly make that seem less important.

I was feeling just a little bit more confident—not enough to relax, but enough to enjoy the morning.

When Gil came down I was reading another of his forensics magazines and spooning cereal to my mouth distractedly. I could hear his mother moving around upstairs and the sounds of another shower starting. I glanced up at him while he poured himself cereal. "Wes still asleep?"

"Yep." He took the bowl and sat in front of the paper in the seat to my right. I frowned at the short answer, but didn't push it.

After another moment of silence, I glanced up through my eyelashes. He wasn't doing the crossword, he was double-checking my Sudoku puzzle. I tried not to laugh and focused instead on the article I had been reading before he emerged. He looked so sweet—so devilishly handsome—with curls still wet, his blue eyes squinting down, soft lips murmuring the numbers as he checked and double checked. He had the faint smell of shaving cream drifting around him—not after shave. He never wore it or cologne… probably because of the job… but I could smell the pepperminty clean scent lingering on his smooth cheeks.

"You should grow a beard." He looked up at me in surprise. I shrugged and half-smiled. "I'd just like it… that's all."

He frowned, absently. "You always hated my beard… you didn't like the red marks it left on…" He cleared his throat. "Although I suppose that doesn't matter now."

I blushed softly, not meeting his eyes. I would love to have this man's beard burn on… what had he not said? My neck, my shoulders, my breasts? My inner thighs? I let my eyes close briefly. Debbie had been insane, clearly. "I, uh… I wouldn't mind that, now."

He stood, leaving the crossword unfinished, and put his bowl in the dishwasher. "It's a non-issue. Beard or no, you wouldn't have any red marks. At least not from me. I'm gonna go tell Wes goodbye before I go. Remember, the appointment is at 11:30 so I'll be here to pick you two up at 11:00. You both need to be ready to go."

He went up the stairs, and I looked back to the half-eaten cereal before me. At first, my mentions of us being together had seemed to fluster him. This was no longer the case, apparently. He had disregarded me entirely. I was losing ground.

He left without telling me goodbye, and once he was gone I went up to Wesley's room. He was still half-asleep, but sitting up in bed all the same, blinking against the morning light through his windows. I could hear Gil's mother in the bathroom—the shower was off, but the sounds of cabinets opening and closing softly were clear. I gave Wesley a minute to wake and looked through his clothing in more detail, searching for the right outfit for this day.

Not that I wanted him to be uncomfortable, by any means, but I didn't want to dress the boy in sweats today either. I found a nice pair of jeans that looked hardly worn and pulled out socks and a white t-shirt for him, before looking at the shirts he had hanging. His sweaters and t-shirts were in his dresser, but hanging were his nicer shirts. Polos, button-downs with long and short sleeves, sweaters and little jackets. I smiled. He had little man clothes.

I always thought it was cute to see kids dressed as little adults, rather than in the matching tops and bottoms. I wondered who had bought him the majority of his wardrobe, Gil or Debbie? I chose a long-sleeved pink button-down, because I had always liked boys or men who could wear the color with confidence. I picked him up out of bed, kissing him softly, and changed his diaper while talking to him about our day.

"Daddy's coming home early to pick us up, and then we're gonna go see a nice doctor. Won't that be fun, Wes? Maybe we'll get some lunch with Daddy, after we see the doctor."

"Daddy?"

I smiled, sliding him into jeans and the socks but leaving him shirtless.

"Yes, Daddy. We're gonna spend some time with him today."

"Daddy!" He clapped his little hands and I smiled softly.

"You miss him during the day, don't you, baby?" I picked him up and kissed his forehead again. "Should we go downstairs and eat some breakfast?"

"Eat." He nodded.

After eating, I put on his t-shirt and the button down, leaving the collar a few buttons so that he'd be comfortable playing in it. We brushed his hair and I wondered idly whether he shouldn't be brushing his teeth twice a day yet. I dug through drawers and didn't find a little toothbrush or any kids' toothpaste, and reminded myself to check the age that brushing should start.

I let him go after that, but he didn't seem to want to play. He sat next to me wherever I went, which at first was on my bed, with the computer open. He laid his head on my lap while I looked up my children's dental concerns, and I reminded myself to tell Gil he needed a toothbrush, and then I took him down to his playroom. But he didn't seem to want to play. He would read books, but the blocks and the cars and the babies and the puzzles… none of them interested him.

The doorbell rang then and the lights flickered—something that had confused me when I first came to live here—and we hurried out to answer it, but Gil's mother had beaten me to the punch. I watched as she signed for a few packages—Elaina Grissom…she didn't look like an Elaina to me—and closed the door. She raised an eyebrow and handed them to me. My clothing.

I smiled. "Thank you."

She nodded curtly and glanced at Wesley. I could tell she wanted to play with him, but she was torn. She felt like she had to ask me, because I was with him, but she wouldn't ask the hated Debbie for anything, probably. I placed a gentle hand on her forearm and she looked at me in alarm.

It took everything I had to keep the same smile on my face. "Would you mind taking Wesley for an hour? I'd really like to shower and dress and Wes is very… affectionate, today." Her look was suspicious, but still she smiled and moved forward, taking his hand and speaking softly to him as they moved back into his playroom. I gripped my packages tighter and moved up the stairs, hoping that at least one of them was a bra that would fit me.

An hour later I had showered, straightened my hair, and dressed in the new clothing I had received. One box had been my underwear and bras, and I can't even tell you how amazing it was to wear my own undergarments. I immediately cleared out the underwear drawer, piling it into one of the small garbage bags I found under the sink in the master bathroom. The second box held a pair of jeans and a pair of gray slacks. The third held several shirts.

I donned an emerald green halter top—the brightness and the style were Debbie's, but it was soft cotton, at least, and neckline was high enough to be appropriate for a doctor's office… those details were mine. Our feet, I had learned, were the same size, which was a blessing. I slipped on some black flats and looked myself over in the mirror. The halter came down far enough that I wouldn't need to worry about it riding up and revealing my lack of a tramp-stamp if I leaned forward. And even leaning forward, there was little to no cleavage.

I breathed deeply and glanced at the clock. It was just past ten thirty. I headed downstairs to find Gil on the floor of Wesley's playroom with Wes and his mo—Elaina. Had Debbie called her by her first name? Certainly she wouldn't have called the woman 'Mom'. My eyes narrowed in surprise--he was early--and he smiled, seeming to enjoy me being the one confused now.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: Let me know what you think. Chapter sixteen will be up either tonight or tomorrow!

* * *

Chapter Fifteen:

Debbie walked into the room and there was something… different, about the way she was dressed. The gray slacks weren't tight to her hips—they were fitted, but not skin tight. Not provocative. The shirt she wore was… more modest, than normal, even if it maintained the normal flair and brightness. And I couldn't see her nipples. Not that I wanted to, but normally, in those shirts with… the straps around the neck, rather than the shoulders... she didn't wear a bra. I had complained once, in the first few weeks of our engagement, that I didn't like the looks she got. She had told me that she hated the types of bras that could be worn under than type of shirt.

Apparently, modesty was more important than that now. …Or perhaps it was just another ploy.

At the very least, she looked surprised to see me here so early. It felt good to have the upper hand for once. I smiled, explaining despite myself. "We have to fill out paperwork since it's our first visit, and I was able to get away early so I thought it couldn't hurt to get there early."

She nodded, regaining her composure after a moment. "Great. Wes, hon, can you put your books away and come put shoes on?"

He stood up, stooping over to pick up the several books he'd been playing with, and carried them over to his little bookshelf. I grabbed a couple he'd missed and replaced them while he rushed to Debbie and we headed down the stairs to find his white sneakers as a trio. I waved goodbye to my mother and swooped Wesley up, hooking him into his car seat in back while Debbie settled herself in the passenger seat.

I slid into the driver's seat then and started the car, ejecting my Vivaldi CD in favor of Wesley's kids songs CD. Debbie smiled softly, and once against I found myself wondering how her smiles were so different than they used to be. How she was so different, in so many little ways… because Debbie had never been subtle. She had been brilliant, sure, but not so big on the details… she cared about the big picture.

I struggled to think she could control something so small as the nuance involved in the pucker of her lips while thinking. But then, if she wasn't manipulating the situation… I also struggled to think that she had changed so dramatically. What did that leave?

She glanced at me, as I pulled onto an exit. "So, this is the psychologist that Wesley's doctor recommended?"

I nodded, slowly. "Yes, he's supposed to be one of the best child psychologists in Las Vegas."

She nodded, her hands twisting slowly in her lap. "We're… we're going to go in with him, aren't we?"

I took a moment to look at her out of the side of my eyes. She looked almost… frightened. I wrinkled my brow. "Yes, I believe so. …Why?"

She swallowed, looking at her hands and, as if realizing what they were doing, stopped twisting them. "I just don't want him going in alone."

I frowned, but nodded. "Okay. …He won't." I didn't understand her concern, but the honest apprehension on her face was enough to convince me not to question it. We were quiet then, until we pulled into the parking lot and I parked near the front.

She was out of the car in a flash, pulling Wesley out of his seat before I could even open the door to the back seat on my side. As she was taking him, I pulled his diaper bag out and slung it over my shoulder. It was less necessary than it used to be, but I didn't like to be caught unaware. With Wes on her hip, we walked into the building side by side. We hadn't been united in anything in a long time, but it certainly felt like we were in this particular trial together.

I tried to tell myself that I didn't like that reality, but it was a lie. It felt nice to not be at odds with her, for once.

It was a nice building, and a placard just inside the door, between two elevators, informed us that the bottom two floors were offices, and the third was our office. Debbie seemed to not notice the sign, she was looking around the building, taking in details. I found this strange—certainly it was not typical behavior for her.

Regardless, I pushed the button and an elevator opened and we stepped in. Debbie was in front of the buttons and glanced at me.

"Three."

"Do you want to push the button, Wes?" She knelt down and pointed to the number three and he stuck his little finger out and pressed the button. The elevator dinged and started moving as she slowly lifted herself back up to standing. "Did you speak to the doctor directly or just his receptionist?"

"His receptionist." She nodded, shifting his weight on her hip and glancing at me. The apprehension was clear on her face again. "Hey." She looked at me. "It's gonna be fine, Debbie."

She nodded again, but the look didn't leave her face. I wanted to comfort her—it had been years since I'd seen her look even half this vulnerable—but I didn't. It would have been such a strange line to cross at this point, and it would give her false hope that… whatever it was she was doing… was working.

The elevator opened, and I gestured that she should precede me out, but the fear flickered in her eyes again, so I led us out and down the hallway a short ways. We stepped through a doorway into a nicely furnished office, with real flowers on the side tables as decoration. The fact that they were real seemed like a nice touch. I gestured that she and Wes should take a seat on the black leather couch while I went up to the receptionist's desk.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Gil Grissom. We have an appointment for 11:30 for Wesley."

She looked down at her books and smiled. "Great. Let me get some paperwork for you to fill out." She shuffled through a drawer and I glanced back at Debbie and Wesley. She was gesturing to the toys in the corner while he looked decidedly disinterested. "Here you are, Dr. Grissom. He should be with you any minute."

"Thank you." I took a pen from the counter and returned to sit on the couch on the opposite side of Wesley. Debbie glanced at me and then lifted Wesley into her lap and scooted closer to me, glancing at the forms over my shoulder. I frowned. "Did you want to fill them out?" I asked, with too much animosity. She shook her head, unaffected.

"No, my writing looks like a third grader's. I just wanted to see what they were asking…" She frowned, and I followed her eyes to one of the first questions.

_We are interested in:_

_ -Family Counseling_

_ -Children's Counseling_

_ -Couples Counseling_

I had checked, of course, 'Children's Counseling'. I suddenly worried that she would want us to sit through couple's counseling, but instead she just looked concerned. "You, uh… you didn't tell me he was a family counselor."

I raised an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"

She just shook her head. "No."

I didn't know what that was about, but I didn't want to get into it right now, so I shrugged it off and went down the list, filling out information and signing the necessary forms. It seemed a little weird that she was watching me as I did so, but I shrugged that off as well and brought the clipboard back to the receptionist.

I moved to sit back on the couch when a couple walked out, looking tired, followed by a man in a colorful tie, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He had long hair, so brown it was almost black, in a ponytail at the back of his head, and thin-rimmed glasses. He smiled warmly, openly, and glanced between the three of us.

"Dr. and Mrs. Grissom?" Debbie picked up Wesley and moved to my side, the apprehension still in her eyes but not on her face. Her face was clear… she was smiling, even. I quirked an eyebrow but turned to the doctor instead, nodding to indicate that that was, in fact, who we were. "So nice to meet you, Dr. Grissom." He extended his hand and I shook it. "I'm Dr. Samson."

I opened my mouth to exchange pleasantries, but Debbie spoke up again, laughter in her voice. "Like Samson and Delilah?"

I frowned. Debbie had been raised in a religious household, but she didn't care much for bible stories. Dr. Samson grinned and offered her his hand. "Just like that, Mrs. Grissom. It's good to meet you."

She smiled. "Is that why you keep your hair long?"

I shifted Wesley's bag on my shoulder, wondering if she was flirting with the man. …I found their interaction strange. Yes, she obviously had a thing for educated men, but Wesley's psychologist?

Dr. Samson didn't seem to find the interaction strange though. He just laughed. "Ah, yes. It's the source of my strength." His gaze turned to Wesley. "And this is Wesley? Hello, Wesley…"

Wesley buried his face in Debbie's shoulder. "He's just a little shy…"

He smiled. "That's okay. New situations are hard. Please, step into my office, let's get to know one another…"

I didn't want to get to know him. I wanted him to fix my kid and stop talking to my wife.

We walked in anyway, seating ourselves on another leather couch—a rich, burgundy color. He sat across from us, in an armchair, and his receptionist followed us, asking if we wanted any refreshments. We declined, yet she placed several bottles of water on the coffee table anyway and let herself out, closing the door behind her.

"Now, why don't you give me an idea why you're here?" He leaned back in his chair, linking his fingers but not clasping them around his hands—leaving them straight out. With a glance to Debbie, and her nod, I spoke for us.

"Well, just under… four months ago, I guess, Debbie and Wes here were… in a plane crash." He looked extremely startled, his eyebrows rising as he pushed his glasses further up on his nose, put he remained quiet, letting me continue. "Wesley was… relatively unharmed, thanks to Debbie. She, on the other hand, has only been home from the hospital for… a couple weeks?" She nodded at me, and I turned back to Dr. Samson. "And, ever since… the accident… Wes has been… quiet."

"How do you mean, Dr. Grissom?"

"Gil, please."

"Alright, Gil. How do you mean?"

"He's… often unresponsive. He plays only rarely and… when he does, it seems like… like half-way through he'll stop, like he's just realized something, and then he won't touch toys again. He just sits and… watches TV or looks at books, but…"

"It doesn't seem like he's actually paying attention to them. He's just sitting. And he… he followed me around, all morning. I couldn't get him to leave my side until his grandmother took him." Debbie volunteered, finishing my thought. Normally that would bother me—it was a very Debbie-like thing to do—but usually she was incorrect in predicting the thoughts I had been trying to express. In this case, she had been right, so it didn't bother me.

Dr. Samson nodded. "Tell me about… your family dynamic."

I opened my mouth to answer, but Debbie spoke up again. "I thought this was about Wesley." There's a little hostility in her voice. I tensed. Dr. Samson's eyebrow twitched.

"It is, Mrs. Grissom—"

"Debbie."

"Debbie. It is about Wesley… you will see on your bill that I'm certainly not charging you for a family session. You must understand that the most important thing in Wesley's world is his family. More specifically, the two of you. Therefore, your family dynamic… your home life… they are essential when considering how to help your son."

She puckered her lips, looking slightly resentful. This was more what I expected from her, but my memory of the fear in her eyes had me second-guessing. Maybe she wasn't being disdainful. Maybe the plane crash had affected _her_ emotionally and psychologically as much as it had Wesley and she was afraid that I had tried to turn Wesley's session into a group one, which was certainly not the case.

There was a brief silence, and I spoke up again. "Our family dynamic has been strained, even before the crash, Dr."

"Why don't you tell me about it, Gil?" I looked down, uncomfortably, and he nodded slowly. "I'm sorry. Maybe this is a bit much to start with. I didn't realize. Why don't you just tell me about yourself, instead? Or about your history… Who is Gil Grissom and how did he come to be married to Debbie…"

"Marlin," I provided, and then sighed. "I'm a forensic entomologist. I met Debbie while I was just a CSI working the night shift at the Crime Lab. Debbie was working nights at Desert Palm. We dated for… four and a half years, I was promoted to the supervisor of the night shift, and then to the assistant lab director. We got married and, two years later, Wesley was born. I was promoted to lab director about a month later, and Debbie told the hospital she wouldn't be coming back from maternity leave. She's stayed home with Wesley since then."

"And Wesley is… two?"

"Almost."

He frowned. "How old are you, Debbie?"

She frowned too. "Thirty."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Debbie. You just look much younger than that. I was trying to determine how old you were when you and your husband started dating."

Was he flirting with her?

"I just got a face lift." She said with slight sarcasm in her voice. At Dr. Samson's raised eyebrow and Debbie's apparent unwillingness to expand on the question, I spoke up again.

"The plane crash… Many of the bones in her face were destroyed. She had to undergo full facial reconstruction. To answer your question, she was twenty-two when we started dating."

"Oh my. I'm very sorry, Debbie, I meant no offense."

She shook her head, as if to say it was fine, and looked down at Wesley in such a way that drew our attention to him. "What I'd really like to talk about, Dr. Samson, is my son. Is it typical for most one year olds to sit, silent, through all of your questions?"

He pursed his lips, displeased but only moderately so. "No, Debbie, it is not. I was just trying to get an idea of who you were, as a family. I certainly can't help Wesley if you won't open up to me."

I glanced between them. Then I cleared my throat. "We're not here for couple's counseling, Dr. Samson."

"I understand that."

I nodded. "We've been sleeping apart."

"For how long?"

"A little over a year."

"How long has it been since you were… intimate."

"Is this pertinent?" Debbie said, as I responded, "Before Wes was born."

I didn't miss the look of surprise she gave me. Did she think we were here to lie to the man?

He frowned. "Can I ask why you're still married?"

I frowned too, and glanced at Debbie. She didn't seem like she was willing to answer his questions anymore. I sighed. "Wes needs two parents. Debbie needs a meal ticket and I need a full-time babysitter and a wife on my arm at cocktail parties."

She flinched at my words and Dr. Samson choked on the coffee he'd been drinking. Certainly, I'd never said such a thing to her face before, but it certainly wasn't inaccurate.

Dr. Samson recovered first. "Did you want children, Gil?"

I frowned. "We didn't plan for Wesley."

"But you wanted kids?"

"…Yes."

"Debbie?"

She cradled him to her chest. "He's not a mistake."

"That's not what I asked."

"Perhaps you ask too much."

"Debbie didn't want children, no." I clarified, tired of the back and forth.

"Were you bitter with Gil because of Wesley? Is that why your intimacy declined?"

She stood up. "It's been an hour, Dr. Samson, and yet you've hardly addressed my son at all. You said hi to him, and then told us what we already know—that his behavior isn't normal. So thank you, for that. It has just been _so_ very nice meeting you, doctor. Have a nice day."

She shifted Wes on her hip again and left the office again. I sighed, uncertain whether I agreed with her or not. Certainly the doctor had been inquisitive, and we were not interested in family counseling—but if he thought our dynamic could be related to Wesley's behavior… I stood up, offering him my hand. "I'm very sorry about that, Dr. Samson."

He smiled softly. "No need to apologize, Gil. Some people have a harder time talking to people they don't know… it makes them feel vulnerable and they lash out. …She certainly has a lot of spirit, anyway. I can see why you fell in love with her."

I frowned, uncertain what he meant by the comment, and just nodded when words failed me. He chuckled. "You can make another appointment for Wes with Mary, my receptionist. I would really like to meet weekly, if that's possible for you and Debbie. I think next week we're booked, but after that you should be able to set up weekly appointments."

I nodded. "Thanks. I'll do that."

He nodded, and I went out the way Debbie had, stopping to make the appointments—always 11:30 on Fridays. It worked best for me. And then, sighing, I headed down to the car and my oh-so-calm wife and child, wondering how much of her anger would be left over for me to endure on the drive home.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: I was on the fence about whether to go in this direction, but I really felt like it was right. :) Let me know what you think!

* * *

Chapter Sixteen:

Gil came home later than usual that night.

The car ride home had been silent, and he'd stayed home just long enough to make himself a sandwich and take it out the door with him to eat on the way to the lab. He didn't say anything about my behavior, and neither did I. His mother tried to ask him about it, and his response had been, "It went fine."

Which did nothing to tell me what he was thinking.

I just… I couldn't stand the idea of shrinks. With their false smiles and open, easy demeanors… almost unshakeable, and certainly not genuine. I always wanted them to be human, growing up. But they weren't. And this one… he had seemed real, at first. He'd put me at ease, he hadn't looked exactly like the rest of them… but he'd all but ignored Wesley and he'd asked me to explain things that were unfathomable. I did not know why Debbie had stopped sleeping with her god of husband any more than I knew why my own mother had stayed with my father for so long before she killed him.

Damn psychologists and their god-damned questions. Couldn't they leave well enough alone? Why must he remind Gil of all of Debbie's—all of my—indiscretions? Wesley hadn't been acting this way before the crash, so clearly it was unrelated to his home life.

I paused. I'd certainly learned more about their—our—relationship though. They'd started dating when she was twenty-two. Probably right out of college. She was four years older than I, and he was fifteen years my senior, which meant that he'd been eleven years her senior. He was thirty-three when they started dating. Why had they waited four and a half years to get married? Had Debbie been angry with Gil that she'd gotten pregnant?

I sighed, flopping down on the bed. What had he said, exactly? Wes needed two parents, I needed a meal ticket, and he needed a babysitter and arm candy. I cringed. Fuck. What on earth had I gotten myself in to?

I sat up. No. I wasn't going to give up that easily. Anything worth having is worth fighting for, isn't it? And Gil was certainly worth having.

I played nice with his mother that afternoon, and she was kinder to me than normal, although that might have been because she was trying to get details about our visit with hippie shrink. We waited until eight thirty for Gil to come home, and then we ate and I gave Wesley another bath and put him to bed. By the time I'd finished the stories and left the room, all the lights in the house were off and Elaina was in her bedroom. I went into mine, simply because I didn't want to be up, downstairs, and alone.

I checked on Wesley a half hour later, and he was half asleep, and the lights were off in Elaina's room. I retreated back to my room. It was almost ten and he wasn't home and he hadn't called. Should I be worried? Would he have called? …He would have called his mother, if not me, wouldn't he? I moved out of my room and rushed into his office, digging through his desk drawers until I found a business card of his. I picked up a phone and dialed the number to the crime lab.

"Las Vegas Crime Lab, how can I help you?"

"Hi, I'm looking for Gil Grissom, please?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, Dr. Grissom a couple of hours ago. Can I take a message for you?"

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No, ma'am, he didn't. I could check with someone on graveyard, see if they know where he is?"

I heard the door downstairs open and close and I breathed a sigh of relief. "No, that's… that's fine. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Have a nice night."

I was already hanging up. I tucked the business card into my pocket, not wanting to get caught not knowing his phone numbers, and hurried downstairs. He wasn't on the main floor at all, and none of the lights had been turned on. I flipped them on as I made my way all the way down, to the garage level. He was sprawled on a couch in the living room and I could smell liquor in the air.

"Gil?"

"Debbie?" He turned to look at me and his eyes were glassy. I moved over to him.

"How'd you get home?"

He frowned, guessing from my question that I knew he'd been drinking. "I took a cab."

I exhaled slowly in quiet relief. "Come on, let's get you upstairs."

He frowned again. "I can get upstairs by myself."

I nodded. "I know you can. That's why you're lying on the couch all the way down here. …Have you eaten?"

He groaned. "Not since lunch…"

He sat up and I pulled him to his feet, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and wrapping mine around his waist, guiding him towards the staircase. "Do you feel up to eating?"

He nodded. "I'm not… drunk, Debbie. I'm just… I'm not going to throw up." He clarified. I nodded.

"Okay, let's get you some food and then get you to bed."

We started up the stairs, and he didn't fight me, step by step, until I could deposit him in the kitchen at the table. He immediately put his head on his arms, lying across the table. I started some coffee and pulled out the lasagna we'd had that night, slicing a generous portion and putting it on a plate and heating it in the microwave for him.

By the time it was finished, his coffee was as well. I poured him a cup and brought both over him. He lifted his head and inhaled. "Mmm, that smells amazing." He lifted a fork and cut a piece, inserting it into his mouth, and then he paused, while chewing, and looked intently at me.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're drunk."

He frowned, taking a drink of his coffee. He clearly had had too much, but he was still quite coordinated, considering.

"No, not just this… What are you really doing, pretending you've changed? You already have everything I can give you—you have access to the money I make, a nice home, a respectable husband to hide your explicit activities behind… I'm advancing in my career, you've had the best medical care I can give you. …I mean, what, are you hoping… that I'll fall in love with you and then… you can divorce me and I won't tell the courts about your philandering? Are you going to take everything from me and find a bigger meal ticket?"

I frowned. "Of course not. I would never do that."

He turned back to his lasagna, seeming neither reassured nor particularly concerned. I frowned and sat beside him. He looked up at me after another minute. "You're just so damned different and I can't place it. Who are you?"

I paled, inhaling sharply. "W-what do you mean?"

He put another bite in his mouth. "I just… you're… I didn't want to believe you'd changed. But you… even little things are different."

I pursed my lips. "Is that so bad?"

He frowned, but didn't answer me. He stood up and brought his plate over to the dishwasher, finishing his coffee and adding it too. "I can get myself to bed… Thanks, Debbie."

I let him go up the stairs ahead of me, gave him about thirty seconds and followed behind him. I knocked gently on the bedroom door, where he would be changing into pajamas. After a brief pause, he called softly, "Come in…"

I slipped in, closing the door behind me. He was standing beside his closet, wearing his pajama pants, his dirty clothing on the floor and a t-shirt in hand. I drew in a breath at the sight of him shirtless, unable to keep my eyes from scanning the front of his body. He chuckled, a light blush crossing his cheeks. "I suppose you haven't seen any of your doctors in a few months. Your body is probably going crazy."

It was my turn to blush. I shook my head. "I don't want sex, I… I want my husband."

He watched me intently for a moment, and there was a hint of uncertainty—vulnerability—in his eyes. "I, uh… I'm drunk Debbie." It was pleading me to not push the issue… implying that he wouldn't be able to stop himself if I did. And it was oh-so-tempting, knowing that.

I nodded, slowly. "And here I'd been waiting up to tell you that I hated you sleeping on the couch… that I wanted you to come back in the room, even if you still didn't want me anymore."

He dropped his shirt and it crumpled beneath his feet as he stepped closer to me. "And if I did want you…? If I let myself believe that you actually wanted me, not just the sex…? I know you're a screamer… you'd have to be quiet…" He continued towards me and I found myself backing away until I bumped into the door I'd closed. He continued until he was less than a foot from me.

"I could claim my… conjugal privileges." I was at once frightened and aroused. It took everything in me to keep my eyes open. "…You could probably convince me to do anything, you know…" He leaned in, speaking against my ear, giving me goose bumps. "…get me to go down on for as long as you could stand it… making you come again and again… do it any position you like… we could use one of your vibrators. Oh, no, that's right… you threw them away, didn't you? …I'm sure you have at least one left, hanging around here…"

I shivered, placing my hands gently on his chest and pushing him back a little. "You're drunk, Gil."

"Why would you have any qualms with that…? You've been trying to get me to take you back since you could talk… hell, maybe since you woke up. …You're not going to get another opportunity like this." He took a step forward and I was certain that I could feel his erection through his pajama pants. He wasn't pressed directly up against me, so I couldn't be certain, but just the hint of it was enough to make me feel weak-kneed.

I shook my head, closing my eyes slowly to gather resolve, and opened them again. "I don't want you to think I took advantage of you, Gil. I don't want you angry with me, in the morning. …And I don't want you to be drunk the first time we're back together. …Here, you sleep in here, and I'll take the couch for the night. Okay?"

I tried to slip out from under him and he lowered his arm to stop my progress.

"Really? That's it? …I'm giving in and you're walking away?"

I nodded, slowly, feeling tears in my eyes. "Yeah… I am. …I'm really sorry, Gil."

This time he let me move out from under him and out the door. I hurried to the couch, fighting back tears, desperate and anxious and confused over what had just happened. Fifteen minutes later, my light still hadn't turned off. I crept back and peeked in—he was asleep on the bed, turned to wide way rather than the long way. I pulled one of the pillows closer to his head, hoping he'd wake up and find it sometime in the night, turned off the light, and left again.

The couch alone was even lonelier than the bed alone, and I couldn't stop a few tears from falling. What if he never forgave me for turning him away when he'd finally given in?


	18. Chapter Seventeen

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Glad to see everyone liked the updates! :) And, I can post regularly again!! For the last three I was copying and pasting each chapter into the text area of an already-uploaded chapter. Which is frustrating. Lots of back and forth, when you'd adding multiple chapters. :)

Sooo, let me know what you think!

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Chapter Seventeen:

I opened my eyes slowly, but I wasn't in the office. Or the guest bedroom. And my head was pounding.

Throbbing.

"Ugh."

I blinked, trying to lift my head. But I couldn't. …And come to think of it, I felt like the ceiling was… wrong. I turned my head.

Oh. There was the headboard. To my right. God, why hadn't I just come home after work last night? Why on earth did I think I needed a drink?

I didn't want to be home.

Guilt surged through me at the thought. But it was true. Leaving the office that had been my life and now, seemed to be nothing but a road block—we'd been over the crime scenes hundreds of times, there was nothing more to find… which meant waiting until he killed someone else—I just couldn't fathom going home. I couldn't imagine trying to play with my son who wouldn't play and hardly spoke and rarely laughed. I couldn't imagine facing my mother who hardly went a day without telling me to change something in the life that was balancing precariously on the edge of razor anyway.

I couldn't imagine going home to Debbie, and the confusing web of lies she was spinning around me. What had it meant, forcing me to be someone I wasn't so that she could spend her life with me—working out and looking for career advancement and playing politics—and then changing so dramatically into a woman I couldn't believe I had married. But I had—'til death do us part—and I had resigned myself to being basically alone in my marriage.

I had always kind of been a loner anyway. It was not such a terrible future to consider. Certainly, it hurt me to know what she was doing. It hurt more than I cared to admit. But I was used to the status quo.

It hurt more, now, that she was changing the rules again. Pretending to be different… to care… to desire me again. Pretending like she was a doting and affectionate mother and that she didn't hate my mother and that she felt remorse for her actions. It hurt, because I wanted to believe her.

I didn't still love her, I knew that easily. I wondered vaguely if I ever had, or if I'm simply been head-over-heels enamored with her and in love with the idea that someone like her could love me. The head cheerleader falling for the ghost… not even the nerd, but the one who was invisible… But even not loving her, I wanted… I wanted to believe that I was worthy of that kind of love. That kind of radical change. I wanted to believe that I was desirable.

And I wanted a stable home life. I had always said that Wes needed two parents, and that our relationship was mutually beneficial. But if Wes could have two parents who loved him, and were kind to him, and who got along with each other? If she were not a full-time babysitter but a stay at home mom and I was not a meal ticket but a provider? …If I could find myself proud to have her on my arm, again. If I wanted her there, rather than needed her there…

But it hurt, to want that, from the woman who had betrayed me in so many ways. It hurt to know that I did want her, if she had changed.

It hurt to know that she hadn't. Not really.

I sat up and groaned. I did not feel good. Usually I could hold my liquor—I doubted I'd ever been falling-down drunk… but I had overindulged the night before. I squinted, trying to get my bearings. Why was I in Debbie's bedroom? Where was Debbie?

It was not a slow realization—it hit me like a slap in the face. I had been changing. She had told me she wanted me—not sex, me—and I had wanted to believe her. I had backed her against the door… and she had refused. I had given in, let her win, and she had… left.

I blinked several more times. That didn't sound right. Had I dreamed it? It was hardly in my character to speak of 'conjugal privileges'. Ugh, just the phrase had my stomach rolling, my mind filled with how many abuse cases.

It was all this damned therapy, bringing old shit to the forefront of my mind. …I didn't want to remember that I had loved her fighting spirit when we first met, or how young she'd been.

That was another thing—I had been far too concerned that they were flirting, and it was not only for Wes that I was worried. _I_ didn't like the idea. _I_ liked knowing that even if she hadn't slept with me in almost two years, she hadn't slept with anyone else for at least four months. I wanted her to get better, but I hadn't given a thought to the obvious fact that she would soon resume her previous activities.

I mean, I had assumed, but… but it had been so nice, watching her with Wesley, knowing she was in bed, alone, every night. …So nice not having to wait up, in the dark of the guest room, to hear her come home because I'd seen too much in my career to trust any one of her lovers.

There was a gentle tap on the door then but before I could call a greeting it opened slowly. And there was Debbie. Looking far more tousled than normal in the morning. She must have slept on the couch. "Hi…" She said softly, closing the door behind her. "I, uh… I thought I heard you up. How are you feeling?"

I cringed. "Like I got hit by a freight train."

She moved up to stand roughly a foot before me, and I noticed for the first time that she held a cup of coffee. She passed it to me and then opened her other palm. Two aspirin rested there. I took them without argument but still looked up at her in confusion before swallowing.

She gave me a strange half-smile. "Do you have to go in to the office today? It's… It's Saturday. Maybe you should stay in, get some real sleep for a change…"

I shook my head. "No. No, I need to go in, at least for a few hours."

She nodded, and then opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, and moved forward regardless. "Your mother's been asking when you got in… why you were out so late. I told her I hadn't talked to you yet because… I didn't know what you'd want to tell her. You, uh… you can use the shower in here, if you… don't want her to know anything."

I nodded, slowly. That was probably better. She would just interrogate me. I looked up at Debbie again, as she was turning to leave me to my shower.

"Why are you doing this?" It didn't make sense. The Debbie I'd married would have been upset I'd been drinking. She would have said that public drunkenness was bad for my career. The Debbie I'd lived with for the past two years wouldn't have noticed or cared. …This Debbie cared about how I felt, but not about how it would affect her. I just didn't understand.

Again, her response was infuriating. "You're my husband, Gil." She left, and I fell back on the bed.

A shower helped a lot. I made it down just as my mother was setting breakfast on the table. She always made big breakfasts on the weekends, growing up. I told her I'd been working late, kissed her cheek, and told her that her lasagna had been amazing. That seemed to satisfy her.

Debbie emerged a moment later with Wesley, both in jeans and short-sleeved shirts. Wesley was in a blue polo and Debbie in a plain pink shirt. It made her eyes look even darker and her cheeks bright. I looked away. We sat down to eat and I noticed with a strange sense of wonder at the way Debbie was eating. Maybe it was just something I hadn't noticed before… maybe she'd always done this, I couldn't be sure. But she had popped the yolk of her over-easy eggs and dipped her toast in it… and then cut the eggs up and mixed them with her hash browns.

Wesley had watched her attentively, and then set down his own spoon and picked his egg up with his fingers, putting it on top of his hash browns. I wanted to smile, but I didn't. Debbie noticed though, and did smile—brightly—and reached over and cut the egg up, mixing them together for him. How strange. The whole interaction was just… strange.

It was almost a relief to go in to the lab. Strictly speaking, the serial case had gone nowhere. For the time being, the graveyard shift had moved on to other cases—crime doesn't stop just because we were busy—and it was just sort of understood that while we would look at it again whenever we had a spare moment, there was nothing to find until there was another body. We had to wait for him to mess up. It was a terrible waiting game.

But still I went over it at every opportunity I had—and today, thankfully, it would be the only thing I needed to take care of. I checked the evidence out, carried it to an empty layout room, and sat down with a notebook in front of me. I would start with the only connection—all the girls had lived in the San Francisco area between 1978 and 1988. Not even for the full time, but so far, that was the time period.

If we had a few suspects, it would be easy to ask who had also lived in San Francisco during that time… because the victims weren't random, and it was natural to assume he'd known them, perhaps during that time. I pulled out a San Francisco map and looked at it—we'd already marked where each victim had lived. There was absolutely no reason to believe that the girls had known each other. I pursed my lips, thinking that maybe they'd all participated in some city-wide event that took place yearly. Before I could look into it, however, there was a knock on the door jamb.

It was my direct supervisor—the director of the Investigative Services Division. I leaned back in my chair, surprised. He was rarely in the lab, much less on weekends. "Hey Bill. What brings you to the lab?"

He smiled. "I knew that I'd find you here."

I raised an eyebrow. I did have a cell phone… "Ah. What can I do for you?"

He came and took the seat beside me. "I want you to start your lectures again."

Both eyebrows now. "I'm sorry?"

He sighed, turning more towards me and looking at his knees before meeting my eyes again. "Truth be told, Gil, I'm worried about you. Your wife and son were in a plane crash—Debbie's only just come home. Yet you're here, in the lab, around eighty hours a week. It's not healthy."

"The serial case—"

"Is cold, Gil. We both know it. And we both know how hard it is for you to accept that… I get it. But it's the reality. …Listen, I'm gonna be straight with you, not only because you're probably the best thing that's ever happened to the lab but because I'm your friend. The lab can't afford to have you burn out, and neither your or your family can afford that either. Pick up another lecture, and go away for a long weekend. Hell, take a week. Bring the family… Debbie's probably dying to get out of the house, and Wes would love a vacation."

I shook my head, slowly. "I'm sorry, Bill. I can't. I… Wes has weekly doctor's appointments. The serial case could break open any minute, and we're still so behind—"

He held his hand up and I stopped speaking. "Gil, if you take my advice and go, and while you're gone there's a break in the case, I will personally buy your whole family tickets on a red eye to get back."

There was something lingering, at the end of his sentence, like he wasn't finished. And then, I knew what it was. I closed my eyes in frustration, feeling my headache returning. "And if I don't?"

"Then you'll be on a mandatory vacation."

"You mean a suspension."

"And you won't be called in, even if our serial breaks into the crime lab and says he'll surrender if he can eat pancakes with the great Gil Grissom."

I let out a startled laugh, despite myself. Bill had a strange sense of humor. The laugh was immediately replaced by a frown. "I don't really have much of a choice, do I?"

He smiled. "Glad to see we understand each other. Let me know what you're going to do so I don't have to force you to take that vacation time." He chuckled, standing, but didn't leave. I gave him a look and he laughed again. "I'm sorry Gil, I meant now. Pack up your evidence, head on home, and make some calls."

I grit my teeth. Usually I liked Bill a lot. Today, I did not.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Sorry I forgot to answer this in the last chapter. Silly asked about Wesley's age--he was eighteen months when the crash happened, but it's been four since then, which is why they told the doctor he's almost two. His birthday is in January. :)

Okay, let me know what you think!

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Chapter Eighteen:

I decided not to question him. I knew he had a lot on his plate and I had had my moments of seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle. Instead, I offered him what I could—some relief and some understanding, and quiet acceptance. He left shortly after breakfast, though I'd wanted him to spend the day in bed. Elaina had pulled out play dough after breakfast, so I left her and Wes to play because he actually was playing, for a change.

I snuck the garbage bag full of Debbie's old underwear out to the garbage, burying it under several other bags—Gil had obviously found the other items I'd thrown away if his comments about Debbie's vibrators were any indicator. On my way back up the stairs, the doorbell rang and the lights flashed. Elaina moved out from the kitchen, but I was already at the door, so she went back to the table with Wesley. I opened it and it was another delivery. Thankfully, they didn't need me to sign for it. I hated my handwriting now.

I took the packages upstairs, grateful to have more than two pairs of pants and a few shirts. I unwrapped them, hanging up the new clothing, and dragged the boxes down the stairs to throw away in the kitchen. Then, considering my still-limited wardrobe, I went back and collected all of her shirts that I thought I could tolerate wearing and piled them in a laundry basket, taking them down to the laundry room and sticking them in the dryer on high. Hopefully, they would shrink enough to be wearable.

I was heading to bring the basket back to my room when Gil came home. I looked at him in surprise, and then at the clock. "…That was fast."

He frowned. "I've been directed to give a lecture."

I frowned too. "You're leaving again?"

He looked startled, but shook his head. "No, it's supposed to get me out of the lab. I think Bill means it more as a vacation than anything else. He's being nice by saying I can call it work and do a lecture."

I tilted my head, uncertain who Bill was and if this meant he was or wasn't leaving. He sighed, after a moment, noting my expression.

"I'll have to dig through my invitations from different colleges to speak. I'd like to do it as soon as possible, so I can get back sooner. We'll all be going though—I don't want to leave Wesley for any amount of time and Bill's right—he said you were probably going crazy being stuck in the house. I'll, uh… I'll let you know."

He moved past me, into the kitchen, greeting Elaina and Wes. I moved up the stairs, considering this. It would be nice to go somewhere, but it would throw me out of my comfort zone, certainly. I wondered where we'd be going. Dropping the basket in the closet, I headed downstairs to see if he had any idea where he was thinking, but he was already up, in his office, digging through one of his desk drawers. I hesitated, and then took a seat on the couch I'd slept on the night before.

He glanced up at me, in surprise, but then turned back to his stacks of envelopes. After a minute, he looked at me again. "Do you want to help me go through them?"

I grinned and moved closer, sitting in the air chair that was closer to where he was seated in his desk chair. He handed me a pile. "What did you have in mind?"

He shrugged. "Somewhere outside of Vegas. Somewhere you and Wes and my mother can have fun… Preferably not a tiny college where I'm speaking to a group of twenty. That'll make me feel like it's an even bigger waste of time. …Something close enough that we could rush home, should something come up in the serial case."

I nodded, trying to keep all of this in mind. I threw out all of the ones on the east coast. "University of Washington?"

He wrinkled his nose a tossed a letter into the discard pile. "Too rainy."

"UCLA… my alma mater…"

I frowned. "Not much of a vacation for your mom…"

"True…"

"San Diego? We could take Wes to the zoo…"

"No! Berkeley!" He held the letter in his hand, triumphant. I paled.

"B…Berkeley?"

"Yes! It's basically in San Francisco; I can see if I can see where my victims lived! This is perfect!" He turned immediately, shaking his mouse so his computer would wake up and immediately opening the internet. I swallowed hard.

"What about… you know, fun for the rest of us? There's not much to do in… in Berkeley."

He glanced at me, but it was only with half of his attention. "Huh? …There's plenty to do in San Francisco though…"

I bit back my groan, watching as he typed in a search for hotels near the school and then picked up his phone and dialed the number on the paper in his hands. Apparently, his mind was made up.

Five minutes later, he had hung up, a list of dates on the pad of paper before him. They had been rather eager to have him—understandably… I knew first hand that most of the forensic anthropology department thought he was the best in the country. Then, he chose a hotel from the list with a decent name—something suites—and called them. And then, in the space of another minute, he was thanking the man only to call the airport, to book flights.

I found myself shaking. "Gil…"

"Yes, four tickets…"

"Gil…"

"At 8:30? Great…" He glanced at me, his eyes questioning.

"I don't…"

"Yes, three adults and one child… Gilbert Grissom, 8-17-56… Debra Grissom, 3-10-67… Elaina Grissom, 4-29-32… and the child is Wesley Grissom, 1-13-97."

"Gil!" I hissed, he turned to look at me, distracted, raising his eyebrows.

"Thank you, sir." He hung up. "_What?_"

"I… I don't think… planes… Wesley…" I realized my hands were shaking and tucked them under my thighs to hide that fact. I swallowed hard. "It… might not be a good idea."

He narrowed his eyes and I steeled myself, willing myself not to show how upset _I_ was at the idea. He frowned. "Well, he might be fine. …We'll have to play it by ear. …It's not like he can just never fly again. …We'll have to take you to the DMV on Monday, get you a new license so you can get on the plane… remind me, okay?"

He turned in his chair, stood, and headed down the stairs to tell his mother and Wesley about the vacation. It took everything I had to stand calmly, walk to the bedroom, close and lock the door, and calmly move to the bed before I lost control. And I did—I was gasping for air, my whole body shaking, tears blinding me.

If I was reacting this way, what was Wesley going to do?


	20. Chapter Nineteen

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: :) Hope you're all still enjoying. I'm kind of on a roll. Thanks for the reviews!

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Chapter Nineteen:

It troubled me the way Debbie had reacted. Maybe I had jumped the gun, a little. Maybe we should drive to San Francisco. What if Wesley really was upset by it? I hadn't even thought about it… I hadn't wanted to admit to Debbie that she of all people had considered our son more than I had, but… It probably wasn't a good idea to fly.

But if we were driving, we'd need to leave sooner. I'd intended for us to fly out Tuesday morning—we had a large three bedroom suite, which I would be billing the lab for, Tuesday through Saturday. Our return flight had been for Sunday. With traffic and frequent bathroom stops it was an eleven, twelve hour drive. Especially if we stopped and had lunch. We could do it in a day, but it would be rather miserable… maybe we'd leave Monday, drive for six hours, and stop somewhere, finish the next day.

That might be more tolerable. I made it into the kitchen, signing as I spoke because I was aware that I was speaking quickly, telling my mother that I had been directed to go out of town for a lecture but that I wanted everyone to go… that we were leaving Monday, if she was up to it.

And then, with a resigned sigh, I headed back up the stairs to see Debbie. Because she had seemed far more upset than she let on, and I felt like she would feel better if I told her I was going to cancel the flights and we could just drive. When I reached the hallway, however, I could hear crying. Crying and heavy breathing. I moved up to her door, knocking on it softly.

"Debbie?" No answer. I knocked harder. "Debbie!" No answer. The noises continued.

I turned the handle but the door was locked. I knocked again. "Debbie? Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

I pulled out my wallet and used a credit card to jimmy the door open because I was close to panicking now. It swung open and Debbie was on the bed in the fetal position, sobbing and drawing in great, wheezing breaths, much too fast, her hands clutching the covers and shaking. "Debbie!"

I ran to the bed, in complete disbelief. What was going on? Was she having a panic attack? I pulled her up to me, pressing her body to mine, trying to calm her down. "Hey…Debbie… Debbie, listen… we're not flying, okay? We're gonna drive… Calm down…" I held her tightly, running my hand down her back, and to my great surprise she curled into me, burying her face in my neck and sobbing.

Her breathing evened out slowly, and several minutes later her breath was still coming in shaky, but she was calmer. I just held her tight, running my hands over her back, and repeating over and over that we weren't going to fly. Finally, I pulled back from her, looking her in the eyes. They were bloodshot and red-rimmed and her nose was red too. I couldn't remember the last time I'd see Debbie cry.

"…Are you okay?" She nodded, slowly, and her cheeks turned pink too. She turned from me.

"I, uh… I'm fine. …I'm sorry, about… about that." She wiped at her eyes and frowned, and slid further from me, sniffling. I let her go, even though I didn't want to. I wanted her to stop looking that way. I… I couldn't believe she had reacted so severely to just the idea of a plane. It made me think that maybe we _should_ be doing whole-family counseling. Debbie was clearly as troubled as Wes, and I wondered how I hadn't seen it before.

Had she hidden it, or had I simply not noticed?

She didn't look at me again, and after a minute I stood. "I, uh… I guess I'll go."

She nodded softly and I left the room. She came down for supper, but she only talked to Wes. She didn't make eye contact. And that night, she didn't put Wes to bed in his own bed, but kept him in her room to sleep. I glanced through her open doorway around ten o'clock to find him sound asleep on one side, and her beside him, one hand holding up the book she was reading and the other resting gently on his back, as if making sure he was still there.

I frowned, and considered talking to her again, but that was… too hard. I left her in peace.

_________

I was mortified that Gil had seen me falling apart the way I had. …And troubled deeply by how quickly he'd calmed me, just with his contact. It had felt so good to have him hold me and touch me, to feel his arms around me. I had reacted as instinctually as a baby does to its mother. …But he clearly didn't feel that way about me or Debbie, and so I was even more embarrassed.

I kept Wesley close that night, because the thought of a plane ride had been frightening not only for myself, but because I had imagined Wes on the plane as well. How likely was a two year old to survive a plane crash twice, after all? If I died, it might just be karma—poetic justice, for letting another woman be buried under my name. But Wes… I couldn't let that happen to Wes. I didn't care if it was irrational.

I didn't know if Gil would be mad, but I had Wesley sleep with me. I just needed the reassurance that he was close and safe.

Sunday was spent packing and loading up the car so that we could leave first thing Monday morning. I was not looking forward to the trip and only hoped I didn't run into anyone I knew. I knew they wouldn't recognize me, but it would be so hard to pretend they were strangers when I knew them so well. …And I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I wanted them to recognize me, if they saw me. I wanted to believe that I was still Sara Sidle, despite having Debbie Marlin's face.

I hardly slept Sunday night, and was up before everyone else again. I took my time, showering, straightening my hair, and dressing, and yet when I went downstairs I was still the only one awake. I brewed coffee, did the Sudoku and left the crossword unfinished and open for Gil and paced the kitchen. I made cereal, but I couldn't eat more than half of it. I was apprehensive. Nervous. Downright afraid.

Gil came down next and even thanked me for the crossword. I tried not to act strangely and not to be embarrassed any more. Hours in a car would be miserable if we were uncomfortable around each other. I went to get Wes up as his mother came down and within the hour we were piled in the vehicle, ready to go. I closed my eyes, exhausted, but unable to sleep.

This trip was going to be hell.


	21. Chapter Twenty

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Thanks for the fabulous reviews! I'ma try to post another chapter tonight, just so everyone knows! :)

SevernSound: I picked Wesley because I've loved the name since I was a little girl watching The Princess Bride. :) So, no special reason to the story. Although I do have a stuffed rhinocerous named Wesley as well. ...Just an interesting detail. Hehe.

If I missed a question of yours (barring those revealing what's going to happen, of course :P) let me know and I'll answer it. Don't let me forget you! :)

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Chapter Twenty:

We stopped at a hotel and got two adjoining rooms. Wes and my mother were in one and Debbie and I were in the other. …Even since the breakdown she'd had, I wasn't sure how to talk to her. I felt like I was walking on eggshells. How had I not realized how much she'd been affected by the crash? I'd focused so much on the physical and yet…

Maybe she was sincere when she said she'd changed. Certainly, the crash had had no little effect on her psyche. Why wouldn't that be enough for her to want to turn her life around?

No, that was just me wanting her to be different.

We went out to eat that night, and Wesley seemed far more responsive than normal. He laughed and colored his menu and giggled when Debbie teased him and tickled him. And Debbie, too, seemed to act more like herself when Wesley was lively and giggling and happy. She was happier. Both were things I wanted to see more often.

We rented The Rugrats Movie off the TV for Wes and Debbie sat and we actually all sat and watched it with him, once I could figure out how to turn on the closed captioning for the television. And then Debbie gave him a bath in our room and put him to bed in my mother's room. My mom hadn't had her nap that day, so she went to bed shortly after him, which left Debbie and I alone together in a room for the night for the first time in a year. I swallowed and sat on my bed, turning the TV to a late night talk show.

"This okay?"

She nodded, sliding back to her pillows and leaning back on the headboard, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Fine."

I nodded, glancing back and forth between her and the TV. I tapped my foot a few times. And glanced between the two again.

"I, uh… I'm really sorry, Debbie. About… not thinking of… the plane. I… should have realized."

She looked at me out of the side of her eyes and then sat up slowly, turning her body to me. "It's okay… I, uh… I know that you… have a lot on your plate, right now."

"That's no excuse—"

"You changed it when you realized the problem. …That's all that matters."

I glanced down at my knees, and then back to her. "I, I'm also sorry about… the other night."

It was clear from her face that she knew what I was talking about. Her eyes got wide, and she blushed. Debbie never used to blush this much. She cleared her throat. "That's… fine. I… I want to feel like… you want me…again. Just… I want you to know what you're doing, when you do."

I nodded, looking away. Then I glanced back at her. "I do want you." She turned a surprised gaze on me. "I do. But… I can't." She nodded sadly.

"I, uh… I think I'm gonna turn in. You can watch whatever." She went to her bag and pulled out pajamas before disappearing into the bathroom. Five minutes later, she returned in a long night shirt that went to her knees. I had seen her wear these before—when we first got married and the apartment we'd shard had been cold. But she kept the buttons on the chest buttoned up, and it was very large on her after all the weight she'd lost. So it was much more modest.

But somehow more alluring that way. I looked away.

She pulled the covers back on her bed and crawled in, turning her back to me. I sighed softly, watching her back.

"Debbie…"

She glanced over her shoulder.

"I, uh… I'm sorry." I didn't know what I was apologizing for this time. I think I was apologizing for not being able to take her at her word—take her back. She rolled onto her back and turned her face to me.

"You don't have to be sorry. …It's my fault, Gil. And I… I have to deal with those consequences. …I'm just… going to wait until you change your mind and… if you never do, well—At least I'm a better person than I used to be. …That's something."

I sat up, turning and putting my feet on the floor. "I want to believe you, Debbie."

She closed her eyes. "But you can't. I know, you said that."

I watched her back a while longer, and then sighed and got up, going over to my own suitcase and pulling out pajamas. I went to the bathroom and changed and came back out—she was facing the wall the bedroom shared with the bathroom, so I could see that her eyes were still open. I walked past the bed to my own, sliding under the covers and turning off the lamp. I picked up the remote and flipped channels, but eventually got frustrated and turned back to her. I pressed mute.

"Debbie…"

She rolled all the way over this time to face me, her face illuminated by the glow of the television. She simply looked at me, waiting. I sighed again.

"…Why… Why did you… stop wanting me, in the first place? I mean… I assume you… you weren't cheating on me when you were nine months pregnant, when you… when we… stopped. …I just… Why?"

I knew I was making myself vulnerable, asking the question, but I couldn't help it. She drew in a deep breath and watched me for a long moment.

"…I don't know why. I was a fool."

I blinked several times. That wasn't really an answer. I turned the TV off and slid down into bed without another word. I didn't sleep much that night.

The next morning when I woke, Debbie was already awake. There was a wet towel hanging over the towel rack but her hair was already dry. I wondered how I'd slept through a hair dryer. We ate the breakfast the hotel provided and loaded everything back into the car. I was exhausted, and Debbie volunteered to drive, but we hadn't gotten another driver's license printed for her so I was stuck.

My mother said she wanted to try to take a better nap today, so she sat in the back with Wes while Debbie sat up from with me and picked up the directions we had into Berkeley and to the hotel. I sighed. I hated this damned vacation already.


	22. Chapter TwentyOne

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: I'm not sure if this'll be the last one for the night or not. It might be. My muse is sleepy. Let me know what you think. Reviews always seem to get my mind working again. :) Hehe.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One:

We reached Berkeley around five o'clock at night and I found myself looking at the city wistfully, missing my regular haunts. I missed the school, and my professors, and my apartment. I hadn't had much that I would miss, in truth, but still—it had been _my_ furniture, _my_ belongings, _my_ tiny apartment that I'd worked so hard for. I even missed my coffee shop on the corner and my favorite little book store and the bar we'd gone to the night we graduated.

"Debbie?"

I jumped. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I asked where we're supposed to go next."

"Oh, take a left at the next stop light."

He turned to look at me in surprise. "…You haven't looked at the directions in the last hour. Are you sure?"

My mouth went dry. "Yeah… I, uh… I remember. I can check, just to be sure but…" I grabbed the papers, my hands shaking a little, and perused them. "Hmm, yeah, it says turn left…"

He gave me another strange look but complied, turning left. For the rest of the way to the hotel, I made sure to make a show of reading the directions, even though I knew exactly where it was—it was just off of campus, a few blocks from where I'd lived. When he parked and went inside to check us in and get room keys, I took the time to take several deep, calming breaths. I needed to keep my wits about myself, here. I had to.

We dragged our things in, and the suite was rather nice. We would have no trouble spending almost a week here. Right inside the door to the left was a bathroom and to the right a closet. Past the closet, on the right, was a small kitchen with a breakfast bar and further in was a small table with two chairs around it. Across from the small dining room was a bedroom and then, further into the room, was a living area. In the far left corner was a room and behind the right wall was another bedroom, sandwiched between the first bedroom and the tiny balcony.

I spoke up right away. "I'd like to have one of the rooms next to each other, so I can be close to Wes."

So Gil took his mother's luggage to the room on the far end of the room and then distributed the rest between the other two rooms. Elaina spoke up, then.

"Should we get something to eat, maybe see what there is to do here?"

It was a Tuesday night—the campus movie theatre was having their dollar night. It was the week before Thanksgiving—the theatre department was probably having a play this week. Then there were the tourist attractions—The Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman's Wharf, Pier 39… There was an aquarium at the pier that Wesley would love, but it closed early during winter. Maybe it was a better choice for tomorrow… We'd have time to take him on the Venetian Carousel then, too.

"Sure," Gil said, swooping Wes up into his arms. "Should we get something to eat, buddy?"

I was afraid to suggest anything, not knowing what I should know about the city. We ended up asking the desk clerk, who told us that they were doing Shakespeare in the Park at a park a few blocks over around 7:30. We ate in the hotel and walked over around 7:00. I was nervous—I had had several friends in the theatre department, and the majority of my teachers had made a point of attending any theatre events around campus.

I held Wes on my lap and we sat near the back, so that Gil could sign the words to his mother without disturbing any of the other patrons. It was chilly and I wished I'd brought a sweater down with me. I wrapped my arms more securely around Wesley, to keep him warm, and looked around. I saw a few people who I didn't know but who I was certain I'd seen around campus, at the very least, and I was grateful we were in the back. Most people would be looking away from me.

The play was Othello—not necessarily the best play for our particular situation. It was about a man who believes his wife is cheating on him and he eventually kills her in their marriage bed—and then, realizing what he's done—kills himself. Not only was it not entirely appropriate for Wes, but it dealt with infidelity too much. I shivered again, and Gil slid out of his windbreaker, passing it to me. I wrapped it around Wes instead.

Throughout the play, Gil signed the words to his mother, though I scarcely thought she needed them—several times, when I glanced at her, she was mouthing the words to herself and looking at the actors rather than at her son's hands. Gil's eyes would flicker to Wes and I occasionally, and I thought they seemed troubled. Deeper than usual. I wanted to ask, but he was rather occupied, and Wesley's eyes were drooping. I wanted him to fall asleep before the ending.

He did, thankfully, and I carried him back to the hotel, rather tired myself.

I took him to the middle room, laying him in the bed and covering him up gently. When I emerged, Gil was sitting at the table and Elaina had already gone to her room. I glanced from him to the door and then came to sit across the table from him.

"Do you… want me to sleep with Wes tonight?"

He looked down at his hands. "No. He can have his own room—he'll probably go to bed earlier than us and wake up later. Let's let him sleep as much as he needs to. I don't mind the couch."

"…Gil, why don't you share the bed with me? I promise I won't… I won't… _do_ anything."

He shook his head slowly. "No, that's… that's fine."

I frowned. He seemed very… distant. More upset than normal. I tilted my head. "Are you… okay?"

He shook his head slowly again. "I just… I shouldn't be here. I should be in Vegas, working on my serial case. I mean… I chose Berkeley so I could go around, see where my victims had lived when they lived here… but that was ten to twenty years ago. There's no reason to believe the same people will live in those houses. In fact, there's every reason to believe that they don't—most of the girls didn't have extended families. So, I'm, what, going to go look at the houses they used to live in? How is that going to help me?"

I frowned softly and extended my hand to his, resting it hesitantly over his. "…I don't know. …I'll go with you, though, if you want. Your mother can take Wes to the pool for the day and… and I'll help you."

He shook his head. "That's fine. I don't… I can do it by myself."

I shook my head too. "No. …You need someone to read the map for you, anyway. I'm helping."

He frowned, but didn't seem to have the strength to argue anymore. He sighed and got up, going to the door and locking it and then pulling down the spare pillow and blanket from the closet. I watched him settle himself on the couch and then finally rose, sighing, and moved to my bedroom.

"…Gil?"

He looked up at me, and I realized with a level of shock how tired he looked. He was forty-one years old and he was usually a very young-looking forty. But tonight he looked old. Fifty or sixty, at least. There were lines in his face that I'd never noticed before. The gray at his temples, which I'd always found rather attractive, looked more prominent. There were bags in his eyes and his posture was rather slumped.

"…If you change your mind, uh… Don't… don't hesitate to… come in. …No matter how late."

He nodded wearily, and I moved into the bedroom, pushing the door so it rested against the jamb but was not entirely closed. I changed quickly into pajamas and turned the lights off, crawling into bed and worrying my bottom lip with my teeth. Gil wasn't in a good place right now, and I just wished I could help, somehow.


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Let me know what you think!

Also, several of you who read this one as well as LoA asked about a sequel. I hadn't planned on having one, but I'm thinking about it now that so many people suggested it. A part of me feels like the piece is stronger ending where it does, and that any sequel would be meaningless fluff... and then the other half of me points out that I love meaningless fluff. :) So I'll let you guys know, whenever I decide. Thanks for all the interest.

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Chapter Twenty-Two:

He didn't come in that night, and I woke up alone. I sighed heavily, wanting to get up before everyone so I could shower and straighten my hair… but then I did have a bedroom to myself. I could always put my hair in a towel and straighten it in the room. …I was just so tired. In truth, I was tired of being Debbie. Not that I'd particularly wanted to be her in the first place, but I'd wanted the husband who I'd been in love with from the moment I woke to hear his voice and I'd wanted the baby who hugged me and called me Mama and was so very happy just to have me around.

…But even if he decided he could forgive Debbie and take her back—he would be with Debbie, loving Debbie. I didn't care if he never knew my name, but I wanted him to love me… love my heart. Not the wife whose place I'd taken.

Not that that was a fair expectation, but it's what I wanted.

I guess maybe I had fooled myself into believing that, since he and his wife were clearly no longer in love, if I could convince him to try again… it would be me he was trying for, not her. And it could be—but then wouldn't I always wonder if he'd come back because, as an honorable married man, I was the only option when his body's needs became overwhelming. Was I not just the only woman he was allowed and if I was being nice, he wouldn't feel guilty for claiming—as he had put it—his conjugal privileges?

I wanted to be loved.

…And I wanted him to see who I was, even if he still called me Debbie. I wanted him to know Sara Sidle—battered child who clawed her way out of foster care and through the Ivy League to emerge on the other side as one of the best damn CSIs he'd ever seen…

I dragged myself up, shaking those thoughts away. If I wanted him to take me with him today, I couldn't keep him waiting. I gathered my clothes and toiletries and hurried through the chilly morning air in the living room to the only bathroom in the suite to shower quickly. I dried off and dressed and then wrapped the towel around my head to walk back to my room. Wesley was at the table, eating cheerios, despite the fact that he wasn't in a booster seat so his nose was about level with the table top. I tousled his hair and planted a kiss on his cheeks as Gil emerged from his mother's room.

I gave him a hesitant smile, and it was returned, just as hesitantly. "I just talked to my mom… she said she'd be happy to keep Wes for the day."

"Good." I nodded, and then paused, not wanting to stop talking to him but also worried about my hair drying curly. He inclined his head.

"If I jump in the shower, will you be able to keep an eye on Wes, or do you want me to wait for you to finish your hair and make-up?"

"No, I can take him in the room with me… Wes, hon, do you wanna eat your cheerios in Mommy's room?"

He tried to grip all of them in his small fists and I moved over, scooping up the ones he'd missed and then taking his hand so he could slip safely from the large chair safely, and we moved into my bedroom as a pair, Gil's eyes on us the whole time. I got Wesley set up on the bed with his cheerios and plugged in my curling iron. I double-checked that the door was closed and then took the towel from my head and dried my hair.

It was still rather short—about two inches long—but my curls were so insistent that they would still be noticeable. Besides, with hair this short, having it straight made it look longer. I was just happy that I could feel comfortable being seen outside of a hospital without a scarf on my head now. Wesley finished his cheerios when I was about half done and then watched me while I finished up, picking up the remote from the bed and using it like a makeshift straightener to mimic my actions.

When I was finished I unplugged the device and swooped over to tickle him and lay kisses across his beautiful little cheeks until he was giggling and squirming and squealing with delight. I wrapped up the curling iron and tucked it away when it had cooled a little, and did my make up quickly—moisturizer, powder foundation, Chap Stick, and a semi-pink gloss on top of the Chap Stick. It was subtle, but pretty—it added a little flair that I felt Debbie required, even if Sara insisted on the subtle part.

God, I must be losing my mind. I was acting as if I had both Sara and Debbie inside of me. I was screwed up enough without adding split personalities to my list…

I threw my things back into my suitcase and scooped Wes from the bed, carrying him out into the living room in time to see Gil step from the bathroom. He looked relieved that I was out of the bedroom and slipped past me—in a towel and with droplets of water dripping from the nape of his neck down his muscled back—to get inside and dress. I shivered. The thoughts that man put in my head…

He was out much faster than me and I was grateful I'd gone first. We took Wes to eat at the continental breakfast downstairs so his mother could shower and Gil brought her back a wide variety of choices. …He was really a good son. And a good man.

And then… we left. And I sat in the passenger seat, the thick case file in my lap, burning and burning, because I knew I couldn't open it and page through it. But I wanted to. On top of the stack was a piece of paper on which he'd written names, notes, and addresses.

_1st victim—Jenna Reynolds, Flight Attendant, Caucasian, blonde hair, green eyes, 29, found in hotel room, 2016 30th Ave S, San Francisco_

_2nd-victim—Rachel Rodriquez, Henderson Resident, Hispanic, black hair, brown eyes, 23, found in home, short hair, 821 N 14th St, Tomales Bay_

_3rd victim—Marci Nichols, Vegas Resident, Caucasian, light brown hair, blue eyes, 27, found in home, 950 S 16th St, Half-Moon Bay_

_4th victim—Karen Whang, Passing through to San Diego, Asian American, black hair, green eyes, 23, found in parking lot, 775 N 25th S, San Francisco_

_5th victim—Michelle Greene, Tourist, African American, black hair, brown eyes, 25, found in hotel room, 403 19th Ave N, Los Altos_

My mouth was dry. I had lived with Rachel Rodriquez in one of my foster homes. One of the bad ones. She was five years younger than me and used to crawl into my bed when she woke up with nightmares. She'd been a beautiful little girl…

"Debbie?"

I jumped. "What?"

His eyes narrowed. "I asked you for the San Francisco addresses. …Where were you?"

I swallowed, and decided for a measure of honesty. "I, uh… I was looking at this… list. These girls… they were… your serial killer?"

His eyes softened, which was what I'd intended, because I knew he'd already seen the alarm in my eyes. It was better he thought me squeamish than suspicious. "Yeah, his… victims. I forget that you were in the crash just as we found the third body and realized it was a serial. You probably haven't seen much about it in the paper. …We know that's it's the same guy, based on how he leaves the bod—girls… but we can't figure out the connection between them. Other than all having lived in a huge metropolitan area at one time."

I frowned. They had very little to go on—the victims were not alike physically, the age range was wide but still fairly consistent… but nothing else. No wonder we were driving aimlessly around said giant metropolitan area. I glanced back at Rachel's information. The address was one I'd never lived at. It must have been a different foster home. She hadn't lived in Tomales Bay before she came to foster care—she'd worried for two weeks straight about starting in a new school.

"These addresses are… last known addresses?"

He shook his head, giving me a curious glance. "No… once we realized that they'd all lived in this area at one time, we asked for addresses. These were the ones we were given…"

"Mmm." The sound was non-committal. I didn't want to give myself away. It surely was just a coincidence that I'd known one of the girls. There was no reason to believe…

"And that's what's kind of strange about it," he said, and I turned to him, surprised he was confiding in me. The smile on his face told me he was surprised at himself as well, but he continued. "Most of the girls didn't have families to speak of. Their next of kin were… boyfriends, neighbors, fuck buddies. …Like I said, weird."

I nodded again. Of course foster children wouldn't have family to claim their bodies. And he didn't know they were foster children because those records were very tightly protected. If they hadn't known to petition child services for the records, they would have no idea if any of these women had been in foster care. …I didn't know, of course, but I was fairly certain that they were. I just had a feeling.

It helped that Rachel was in the list.

"Sorry… I'm sure this is boring you."

"No!" I insisted, and his narrowed eyes returned. "I, uh… I want to help. It isn't boring, it's just… I don't know… kind of scary."

Was that something Debbie would say? I mean, a non-slutty, non-bitchy Debbie…? It seemed so, because he nodded again, turning his eyes back to the road before us. Apparently he was like me—he believed that everyone who wasn't in law enforcement was terribly frightened by the very idea of the people we tried to catch every day.

"So what was that first address?"

I looked back down at the sheet, reading it off, and then I pulled out a map even though I didn't need it, intent on being a believable navigator. …Maybe I'd get us lost, just to be convincing.


	24. Chapter Twenty Three

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Thanks for the wonderful reviews! Let me know what you think of this chaper! :)

Also, aninom pointed out to me that I had Sara's age wrong in the previous chapter. I wavered on how old I wanted her to be, when I started this, and apparently confused myself. :) So she's 26, Grissom is 41, Debbie was 30, and Rachel was 23. Sara was not five years older than her, but three. :) I'll go back and fix it when I have time. Off to class! Have a great day!

Oh, also... I just made up all the addresses. So if any of you wonderful readers live in San Francisco and are going 'Wait a minute...' that's why. They're just jibberish.

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Chapter Twenty-Three:

We drove to the first victim's home, first, because she lived in San Fran. rather than a suburb. I glanced at him as we were getting close—directions no longer necessary as we were on 30th Ave S, just waiting to get into the 2000 block of house numbers. "So… this is just somewhere she lived… sometime in her life?"

He frowned at my question, and I immediately felt bad. They'd been unable to make headway on this case for what, four months now? No, he'd said the third victim was around the time of my crash… so there had been two before then. If I'd been unable to find anything—not one piece of evidence—on a serial killer for six months… I'd be driving around pointlessly too.

"Well, this connection is about all we've got. And it didn't seem like anyone who gave us their old addresses knew more than that it was on some papers or mail the girls had around their homes. Even the live-in boyfriends couldn't explain why their deceased girlfriend would have the address written on boxes in the basement and nowhere else. But the boxes didn't help either—old clothes, high school diplomas, stuffed animals… nothing to give us more than a city."

I nodded—psychologically speaking, children who live in homes with very little order and stability often grow up to be neurotic about cleaning and organizing. I knew this, because I'd had several of my own counselors in high school tell me so. It didn't stop me from my obsessive behaviors, though. It just made me feel less crazy for wanting the order. So it made perfect sense that one of these girls might have been organized to the point of keeping her childhood keepsakes in boxes labeled by the home in which she had used or received them.

"Which girl was that? …With the boxes?" He looked at me in surprise, stepping on the breaks when he saw a two on a house number and peering out the windows.

"Oh, uh… the lawyer. Michelle Greene." I glanced down at her information, though it told me nothing new. I was willing to bet just about anything that if she had labeled the boxes that way, then I was right—she'd been in foster care. Which made two out of five. Hardly insignificant…

He pulled up on the street outside 2016. It was dark green, with white trim. The front was very symmetrical, with concrete steps leading up to a white door and white-framed windows on either side. A single garage was visible behind the house, to the right, at the end of the driveway. Despite the symmetry of the build of the house, it looked like the paint had been applied a decade before. It was faded and peeling, the steps cracked and chipped, the wrought-iron railing leaning precariously and missing a few bars. The front yard was strewn with footballs and ride-in cars and a rusty-brown wagon that I was certain used to be red.

Let me take a moment to be a little forward and a little cynical—the foster care system is important. It takes kids away from parents who don't deserve them and keeps them safe. It is also very flawed… there are some families who are amazing, and others who are only just better than the home you left behind… And it generally isn't until something terrible happens that the state becomes aware of how bad it is. At least, that's been my experience. In one foster home, I'd shared a room with a girl who thought we were being treated poorly because our foster parents hadn't made us afternoon snacks and tucked us in for bed. …We were in sixth grade. I'd been tucking myself in for six years, at least.

But I think she was the exception, not the rule. Nobody else ever talked like that.

So when I took in this home, I knew the people who lived inside were foster parents. And I knew they were not the kind you wanted to end up with, if you could help it. That made three of the five. It was only by gritting my teeth and clenching my fists that I was able to force myself to slide out of the vehicle after Gil and move up to the door. He took the file from me with ease and knocked on the door. I took a deep breath. Should I even be here?

The door swung open. A little girl, roughly seven or eight, opened the door. Her hair wasn't brushed, she had a stain on the pink sundress she wore that wasn't fresh, and she was barefoot, her feet dirty. Her eyes were wide.

"Hi there. Is your mommy or daddy home?" Gil still didn't understand. He didn't understand that this little girl didn't know where her mommy or daddy were. Not really.

Her eyes squinted and she popped a thumb in her mouth. …She was rather old for thumb-sucking. I frowned. A woman came up behind her.

"Cassie! How many times have I told you not to open the damned door?" The little girl scurried away and the brusque woman placed a hand on the door and the door jamb, blocking our view of the inside of her home. "Can I help you?"

I watched Gil give the woman a once-over before speaking. "Hi. My name is Gil Grissom and… this is Debbie Marlin. We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

It took every bit of my self control not to turn and gape at the man. He could get in a lot of trouble for this. His superiors would probably forgive him for doing this when he was supposed to be vacationing—especially if he found something—but to lie about my role in it? The woman pursed her lips. She had brown hair with intermittent streaks of gray through it and it, too, looked like it needed to be brushed. But she was cleaner than the little girl had been. Cassie.

"You're a long way from home, Gil." I frowned at her familiarity but he smiled.

"That I am. I was wondering if I could talk to you—I'm investigating the death of a woman who I believe lived here fifteen to twenty years ago…" As he spoke, I realized that this woman was not old enough to have lived here at the time. He seemed to have realized the same thing. "I was wondering if you could tell me anything about the people who lived here before you."

Couldn't he have checked with the city to see who had owned the home? …I was certain not only that he could, but that he would have. Was he trying to make the woman think he knew less than he did? Catch her in a lie? …Why? Was she a suspect? Women weren't usually serial killers…

"My parents owned the home before my husband and I. Twenty years ago… I was in high school. Might have been in college when your person lived here. I probably won't remember anyway… there were so many."

He blinked. "I'm sorry… There were so many what?"

"Foster kids. That's the only way your missing lady could have lived here."

He raised his eyebrows, and I saw something click in his brain. He'd put two and two together. I breathed a sigh of relief—I wouldn't have to figure out how to slip him the clue. "I see… Well, her name was Jenna Reynolds… blonde girl."

The woman shook her head. "There were so many Jenny's."

I could tell Gil was frustrated, but he didn't show it. "Would you mind looking at a picture, just in case it jogs your memory?"

She frowned and slumped herself against the door jamb, crossing her arms across her chest, as if he was putting her out. Gil did nothing but offer her a charming smile and pull the photo quickly from the file, though I had no idea how he'd located it so quickly. He held it up—the girl was as described… white, blonde, roughly thirty. There was a long bruise across her neck. She'd been strangled. Likely COD. My fingers itched once again to open the file in his large hands.

The woman frowned, and even leaned a little closer to look at the girl's face, seeming unconcerned that she was looking at an autopsy photo of a woman who was already dead. She shook her head again.

"Like I said, I don't know. She might have been here while I lived at home—I can't be sure. They all run together."

Gil nodded, seeming frustrated, but thanked the woman for her time and even put a hand to the small of my back to guide me down the stairs—probably because I was on the side with the leaning railing—and back out to the car. Once seated and driving away, I dared a glance at him.

"…Was that helpful?" …There. That didn't seem so suspicious. A Debbie who wanted to be involved in his work would ask a question like that, right?

He shrugged and tilted his head to one side to crack his neck. "Well, we know she was in foster care. We can contact child services and get her information sent over, see if that gives us something. …So, yes, it was helpful." He offered me a smile then—a genuine, not forced, just for me smile. I felt myself blush and beam in return. "I, uh… I'm glad you were there. I don't think she would have told me as much if you hadn't been."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know… women put other women at ease in these situations. Men seem threatening."

I thought about how cordial and polite he'd been to the woman who had grated on my nerves far more than I cared to admit and laughed. "There was nothing remotely threatening about you."

He shrugged and blushed a little. "Flies and honey, you know. I _am_ an entomologist." He shrugged again, a coy little smile making the corners of his mouth twitch and I felt warmth seep through me. That smile was for me, specifically, and I rewarded it with one of my own.

Yes, I did know the old saying: You catch more flies with honey.

…I wonder what one uses to catch entomologists?


	25. Chapter Twenty Four

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Sorry about earlier. I was trying to post a slightly edited chapter 23 and accidentally added it as a new chapter. I was on auto-pilot, I think. :) So my apologies for getting everyone's hopes up. But! It meant that even though I'm tired, sick, and possibly have pink eye (I work with kids and it's been going around, so it's fairly likely...) I felt like I needed to get a chapter up tonight. So it might have been a blessing in disguise.

Plus, my Sara was on CSI tonight, and that helped. (Yeah, _I know_, she's not _really_ mine. ...But I love her so!)

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Chapter Twenty Four:

_Debbie was different. _

I don't know how many times I've said that since the plane crash, but it's an ever-present reality.

She wasn't pretending to be interested in what we were doing. She wasn't throwing herself headlong into it, but she wasn't feigning interest either. Her eyes were focused. Fevered… the look in her eyes when I thought out loud was similar to those of a professional in the field. CSIs looked like that, when they were determined to find the evidence that would break the case.

I found myself forgetting that I was supposed to be uncomfortable around her, and guarded, and afraid. Because we did seem so united in the pursuance of this shot in the dark, and because her eyes were honest and wide, her smiles free and giving. I don't know if I could have ever said that about Debbie… even when we dated, we had always seemed like we lived in different worlds. We weren't united in anything but our attraction to one another.

She was young when we met—twenty-two, fresh out of college, working nights at Desert Palm and spending her days shopping. When she did have a night off, she wanted to go out to clubs and bars. She wanted me to take her dancing. Now, I wasn't old, per se, when we met. But I wasn't twenty two. I wanted to fall in love, settle down, start a family. I wanted someone to sit in a quiet room with, reading separately but together. I wanted someone who knew how I took my coffee without asking and remembered the names I gave to my pets. I wanted someone who got along with my mother and loved me the way she had loved my father.

Maybe we'd entered into the relationship with such different expectations that it was no wonder things had changed so dramatically. That was fair—she hadn't wanted children, yet she'd found herself with a husband who worked too much and a baby tying her down, preventing the easy days of shopping and stopping at the spa. …and while all of this sounded rather shallow, she had never told me she wanted anything else. She had been honest, and I had deluded myself into believing that that was enough.

Could I blame her for finding herself in a life she'd never wanted with a man who had known she didn't want it and yet did nothing to help her change it? …I blamed her for her mind-games, her infidelity, her neglectful treatment of Wesley… but maybe I understood her, a little better.

And now… Now she was more of an adult. Maybe the plane crash had not only made her reevaluate her priorities but matured her personality too. …Could she honestly want me again, or was she just trying to be a better wife and mother because she'd realized her failings? I didn't want to fall for her again only to be a marital obligation.

"Gi-il?" She called in an almost sing-song voice. I jerked my head up.

"Hmm?" She laughed. Her laugh was different too—lighter, but also deeper. It felt primal.

"I said your name, like, ten times… You passed it."

"Oh." I slowed the car and turned around as she guided me back to a home. It was painted a bright yellow color. Sunny. Cheerful. The lawn was well-kept and there were toys in the yard at this home as well, but they were new toys. I glanced at Debbie and her gaze looked almost… longing. How strange.

I thought about asking her about it, but in a moment it was gone, and I wondered whether I'd really seen it all. She gave me a quick smile. "Ready?"

I nodded and we moved from the car. Once again, she passed me the case file, but it wasn't necessary. The home had been sold roughly ten years before. This would honestly be a gossip-gathering trip… What did they know about the people who'd owned the house before them? Had they gotten a new address for the people so they could forward mail? What had the neighbors said about them?

I knocked on the door once again and felt Debbie tense at my side. …It was almost cute to see her nervous. She was normally so unflappable. A moment later the door swung open. There was another little girl—older than the first… maybe twelve or thirteen. She wore jeans that looked like they'd been ironed and her hair was in neat braids with a crazy amount of clips thrown in. She'd clearly done it herself.

"Hi, Is your mom or dad home?"

"Mo-om!" She yelled, turning her head into the depths of the house. A voice could be heard echoing from the depths of the home.

"Dani, I told you, if you need me you can walk your lazy little bottom in here and—"

"There are some old people at the door for you!" She shouted again. My eyebrows rose. How kind of her.

We didn't hear the woman answer, but the girl turned back to us. "She's coming."

A woman appeared behind her. She looked roughly the same age as the other woman we'd spoken to, but the years hadn't been so hard on her. She looked like a stressed mom who was working hard, but not like life had walked all over her. I offered her a smile.

"I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am. I'm Gil Grissom and this is Debbie Marlin. We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab… I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

She frowned and glanced down at her daughter, patting her head gently. "Go check on your brother, Dani."

"But Mom!"

"Dani." The girl huffed and stomped off. I couldn't help but smirk a little. She paused a moment and then looked between us. "What's this about?"

I offered what I hoped was a comforting smile. "About the people who used to own this home, actually. I assure you, you're not in any kind of trouble… We were really just hoping we could talk."

"Alright… Come in, please. I'm Sandra." She took a step back and held the door open. We stepped inside.

"It's nice to meet you. I'm sorry if I worried you…"

She waved her hand dismissively. "I've got a little sister with terrible taste in men. One in particular, that keeps coming back, has listed this address as his own far too often, is all."

I smiled as she led us into her kitchen. It was also yellow. It made me feel lighter. We both sat and she offered us coffee and then sat too, clasping her hands. "…I, uh… I don't know much about the people who lived here before us. I'm not sure how much I can help you folks."

"Well, even little things sometimes help. This address is one of the few leads we've had in the case."

At that moment the girl, Dani, stomped up the stairs again. "He's still watching TV, just like I told you."

The mother looked quite harassed. "Thank you Dani… Can you go play in your room, please?" There was another huff from the girl but she complied. Sandra turned back to us. "…I swear teenage comes earlier and earlier."

I smiled. "Is she your eldest?"

"No. My eldest son is a couple years older than her, and then we've got the baby… two and half. Rather unexpected." I chuckled appreciatively and her gaze turned speculative. "You're a father?"

"It's that obvious?"

"Ah, you wear it well. …How many?"

The smile that filled my face was nothing but pure pride and joy. "Just the one. Wesley. He'll be two in January."

She glanced at Debbie, probably feeling we were excluding her. "Do you have any of your own?" I worried, but she didn't give us away. She put on a smile.

"Not yet… waiting to find Mr. Right."

The woman chuckled, and as the sound slipped away, she seemed to turn her mind from pleasantries to business. She took a drink of coffee and then regarded me seriously.

"I didn't know the people at all… We met at closing, of course, but it was brief. My impression of them was that… well, they seemed distant. Less than friendly. But people aren't always as social as I am… my husband is always reminding me."

"Did your… neighbors tell you anything?"

She shook her head slowly. "They said the people hadn't socialized much… had a lot of kids. Most of what I could guess about them came from… well, the mess they left behind."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "Not a very nice assortment. The closets had lots of broken toy pieces in them… they'd forgotten to take the trash out from under the sink, and it was mostly filled with bottles. Either they'd dumped out their entire liquor cabinet before the move, or they were heavy drinkers. The floors had to be replaced entirely, they were so scuffed… but that could have been from use more than anything. I'd heard they had a lot of kids, and goodness knows I know what kids can do to a floor…"

I laughed softly, taking this in. It didn't necessarily mean foster care, but she had said 'lots of kids.' It was definitely something to look into.

There was very little else she could tell us, and after we finished our coffee and thanked her many times we said goodbye and climbed back into the car. I had the urge to put my hand to the small of Debbie's back as we walked out, but restrained myself. There was no crumbling sidewalk and she was perfectly capable of walking on her own. It just… it hadn't been so easy in such a long time. I liked the idea of getting caught up in that ease, even if I knew I couldn't.

I glanced at her once we were seated, once again struck by how different she was. Did she hold her body differently? Move differently? What _was_ it? "So… where to next?"

She looked at the addresses, and then back at the map. "Well, the rest are all in suburbs… Los Altos… Half-Moon Bay, and… T-tomales Bay." She had pointed to each on the map as she spoke it, and I noticed that while she pretended to search, her eyes seemed to flicker repeatedly to the spots she would eventually find said suburb, as if she already knew and the map was… what, for double checking? I wrote it off.

"Which is furthest away? So we can work our way back…"

She glanced at the map and, again, her eyes kept flickering to the same spot before she answered. "Tomales Bay." Her voice came out almost meek. I looked at her in concern.

"Are you okay, Debbie?"

She nodded. "Just tired… I'm used to a little more sleep ever since…" The crash. I should have figured.

"Do you want to go back and we can do these tomorrow? Or… I can finish them myself?"

"No!" She insisted. "I… I'm fine. …Really. I'll go to bed early tonight."

I nodded, slowly. "…Okay. Tomales Bay it is."

I frowned—Had she just gotten paler? …Maybe she was more worn out than she let on…


	26. Chapter Twenty Five

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Okay, first and foremost--I want to apologize for the use of a racial slur in this chapter. Well, the beginning of one. Even though it's spoken by an ignorant character and not finished and all of that... I still feel crazy guilty for it, because it's still fairly clear what it is. And I'm sorry. :(

Next, I want to thank everyone for their reviews again. It makes me so very happy. :) I love it.

Finally, thanks to everyone who hoped that I feel better. I'm sure I'll be fine--working in a daycare all through college means that once you're done with those two years straight of never being healthy, you have the immune system of super woman. ...So this is the first time I've been sick in a really long time and I'm kind of being a baby about it. :) Although, the goggles idea is probably a good one. I was worried, briefly, that I'd contracted some rare bunny eye illness (because she's still not over it... we're gonna make an appointment for x-rays... she might have impacted teeth that need removing... poor baby.) and that I was going to break out in bunny pox. And then the kids in my room had it and I was crazy relieved. :)

...Alright, enough personal health information! Thank you thank you thank you my lovely readers whom I love, and I apologize again, and I hope you enjoy. :)

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Chapter Twenty-Five:

Once I'd directed him in the basic direction of my home town, I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes. It would be over an hour's drive, without traffic. And that would give me plenty of time to calm down and reconcile myself with the facts as they presented themselves: I would be going back to the place where my entire live had spiraled out of control (but then, had it ever been in control?) for the first time since I left in as a sixteen year old Harvard incoming freshman, and though it might make me feel emotional, I could not show those emotions because Debbie had no reason to fear Tomales Bay.

In fact, I would just _be_ Debbie. While we were there, I wouldn't be Sara Sidle pretending to be Debbie Grissom—I would be Debbie Grissom. Too confident, too put together, too controlled. Unshakable. I breathed in deeply and concentrated on the persona. Because it wouldn't be so bad… we weren't going back to the B&B… just to the Daniels'. I took another deep breath. They'd been pretty mad. I was pretty sure Mr. Daniels was an addict of one kind or another, though that was simply my adult interpretation of fuzzy childhood memories… and Mrs. Daniels was like my mother. She tacitly allowed his tyranny and took out the bad mood it caused her on the children in her care.

But it didn't matter. I was Debbie, and Debbie doesn't know this about these people. Debbie would look down her pretty, perfect little nose at them. I raised my nose, hoping to feel more like the woman, and Gil glanced at me. "You sure you're okay?"

I jumped. "Yeah… I…" Shit. I needed to say something. "It's just… sad." There. Was that believable?

He nodded slowly. Apparently, once again, I'd managed to scrape by. "Yeah, it… I'm sorry Debbie. I… should have realized that this would be hard for you. …You're not used to seeing death every day."

I nodded, and then glanced at him. "It's okay… It's better than not spending the day with you."

He looked surprised and his ears even turned a little pink, but he didn't answer—he watched the road, he switched lanes, he adjusted the radio volume up and then back down… but he didn't say anything.

I looked out my window, trying not to recognize the things we were passing. It had been nice to come to Berkeley for grad school because it was like being home—the ocean, the city, the hills—without the burden of the memories of home. Though I had lived this close for years, I had never, ever, gone back. I wasn't even certain why I was doing it now, except… I wanted Gil to see the side of Debbie that was really me… and I sort of felt like I owed it to Rachel. She'd been a sweet girl.

Despite the length of the drive, it felt like hardly any time had passed before we were driving through familiar streets where I had walked to school, had my first kisses and my first dates… the park I'd gone to to fill out my college applications because there was no room or quiet in the house I'd been living in.

"This is kind of a cute little town… right on the ocean. It'd be nice to have a summer house here, in a few years, don't you think?"

My stomach churned. That was such a loaded statement, and he had no idea. My head spun with all that was being said. It was good that he seemed to be thinking of a mutual future together… not only one of existence—work and caring for Wesley and indifference—but one with vacations in little beach towns. On the other hand, it was in a town I had hoped to never ever see again. A town had me clenching my jaw to keep from trembling. It was like he was offering me a future in the past I'd thought I'd escaped. I swallowed hard.

"A beach house would be nice… maybe somewhere a little bigger…"

He seemed to be rolling his eyes at me, but I couldn't be sure, because he was turned slightly away from me, reading a street sign. "I suppose this doesn't have the shopping opportunities for you…"

I wanted to scowl and disagree, but I didn't. It was easier to let him think I was shallow than to try to come up with a better excuse; he already believed this one.

The house was exactly as I remembered it—brown. The grass was brown, the wood was brown, the doors were brown. I suppressed a shudder, straightened my shoulders, and focused on being Debbie as we walked up to the front door which was scuffed and pockmarked. This was the same door the social worker had knocked on that first day I was brought here. No—I was confident, beautiful, smart. I only wore designer clothes. I was so damned desirable that not only did I have a dream husband but the attentions of the majority of the doctors I'd worked with.

Gil knocked, and I felt each one in the pit of my stomach. It took a long time for the door to open—it was a teenage boy this time. He had scruff on his chin and long hair. It looked like he'd tried hard to keep it clean and brushed but I could tell by the split ends that he probably hadn't had a hair cut in years. Not even a trim. And his eyes were bright, but sad. He'd seen too much in his life.

"Hi. We're looking for the man or woman of the house please?"

The eyes flickered between us, lingering on mine, as if he knew he'd found a kindred spirit in them. They turned back to Gil. "I'll get Mr. Daniels." The door closed, leaving us on the porch. He glanced at me. He opened his mouth to say something, and then the door swung open.

He was older than I remembered him, but he was the very same man I'd spent a year being afraid of before I was moved because he told my social work he couldn't tolerate what a little smart ass I was. …Because I'd told him that I wasn't going to submerge my hand in the bucket he'd set before me for the cleaning of the bathroom floor. I'd watched him mix the assorted cleaning chemicals into it myself, and while I didn't believe he meant to burn my skin off, I knew enough about chemistry to determine that it was a distinct possibility. But it was hard for them, when they had to find you another place to stay… so they didn't really want to hear your side of the story, they just wanted to find somewhere to put you.

No—that's not true. Some tried very hard to listen… they were just so busy. Overworked. I'd looked into the details as an adult—social workers in California had some of the highest numbers of cases at a single time in the entire U.S. They tried.

The man was shirtless and balding, and he had a bit of a stomach roll coming over the top of his belt. He held the door in one hand, preventing sight further in the home, and a beer bottle in the other. His eyes were bloodshot, and I wondered if he was high as well. "What… can I do for you folks?" He asked the pair of us, but he didn't look at me. He'd always favored boys.

I pursed my lips in distaste and watched Gil's eyebrow twitch—the only part of his face which revealed he might be less than comfortable with the man he'd been confronted by. He cleared his throat softly. "I'm Gil Grissom and this is Debbie Marlin. We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab and we'd like to ask you a few questions, if we may."

He probably didn't hear the second sentence, because once Gil introduced me and the man turned his heavy-lidded eyes on me with more awareness. "Do I know you?"

I frowned and clenched my fists to keep my hands from shaking. "No, sir, I don't believe so."

"No… you look familiar. …You one of them brats who lived here, come back to complain?" I raised an eyebrow, trying to stay calm. Apparently that sort of thing was common for him?

I meant to disagree again, but instead, "Brats?!" slipped out. I couldn't help it. Gil's hand came down on my arm above my elbow, steering me behind him without making eye contact. "Mr. Daniels, is it? We're not really here to discuss my…colleague's resemblance to anyone you might have known. We're here to talk about Rachel Rodriquez."

"That dumb little sp—"

"Excuse me." Gil interrupted his racial slur, just as my eyes were widening in the realization of what he'd been about to say. Had he talked that way when I lived here, and I hadn't noticed? …Or had I not known what the word meant, at the time? "I don't think that's called for. We'd just like information about the time she lived here. I assume you knew her?"

"Yeah… lived here… about the time that other little brat did. The one your lady friend looks like. Little shits, both of them. She stayed a lot longer though…"

"Have you kept in touch with her, since she moved out?"

The man laughed. "Hell no. Don't keep in touch with none of the little bastards."

Gil cringed and I fell in love all over again. He was so very kind. "Listen, Mr. Daniels. Rachel Rodriquez has been murdered. I would really appreciate it if you could try to be of some help."

He surveyed Gil for a moment and shook his head. "Been years since I seen or heard of her. I can't help you." The door closed and Gil sighed. I expected him to be mad at me but he didn't appear to be. He looked at me, put his hand firmly on my back, as if to keep something between me and the man who had disappeared within the house, and we moved back out to the car.

When I'd guided him back out of town with a sigh of relief and we were headed towards Los Altos and Half-Moon Bay, which were both on the other side of San Francisco, he pulled out his phone and dialed quickly. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, listening and basking in my relief that the encounter had been so short. I could not imagine sitting down to coffee with him as we had with Sandra. He'd eyed me like a piece of meat, which was all the more disturbing considering that he seemed to remember me as a child. Sure, my face was different, but I found it no less disconcerting.

The man Gil had been calling answered. I couldn't hear his words, but I heard a voice pick up.

"Brass, listen, it's Gil. I need a favor…"

I strained to hear the response, but it was impossible.

"…I think I might have some information about the serial case, but I don't want Bill knowing it came from me, if you can help it."

Who was 'Brass' anyway?

"I think these girls may all have been in foster care. Three out of the five for sure, anyway… We'll need to contact Child Services and negotiate the release of their records."

I sighed happily. This was going well. Maybe the case would be solved soon and he'd be home more often.

"Yeah, it could take a while, but that's why I'm calling now instead of waiting 'til I get back… You'll call when you know something?"

Waiting 'til he got back. Ha! Who was he trying to fool? If he thought they'd get the girls' files in the next day or so, we'd all be on a plane already.

"Great. Thanks, Jim. …I'll see you later."

He hung up the phone and he glanced at me. I smiled, and he did too. "Sounds like we might finally have something to go on!"

He was so happy—so childlike in his excitement that this case was moving again… It made me happy too, despite our encounter with Mr. Daniels. I beamed. "I'm glad."

He glanced back from the road again, and another smile tugged on his lips.


	27. Chapter Twenty Six

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Let me know what you think--sorry the update is so late! :)

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six:

I opted to skip the final two houses—they had both been sold several times in the last fifteen to twenty years, so it would be another gossip-gathering trip. I had a feeling that the fact that the girls had been foster children was the link I'd been missing in the case, and if it came down to it, I'd make a telephone call. I was tired and drained, and if I was, I knew that Debbie was. I hadn't expected it, but she seemed rather emotional over the whole thing.

I often forgot how hard it was to deal with death, even in the abstract, for people who weren't used to seeing it all the time. Sure, she saw it from time to time at the hospital, but it wasn't the same.

I glanced at her across the table from me, walking Wesley's animal crackers across the surface before him while he giggled and was struck once again how different she was. I hadn't been able to say that I'd genuinely enjoyed spending time with her in years, but today had been… well, if not fun, then still enjoyable. I enjoyed her company. On the long ride home, I had found myself searching for things to speak with her about… telling soft jokes and teasing her, because I enjoyed the spark of indignation in her eyes and the smile that pulled her lips apart in a smile that was simultaneously so familiar and yet so foreign.

I realized with some surprise, watching she and Wesley play, that I missed her longer hair. I was surprised by how well she pulled off the short hair while it was growing out, but I missed it. When we'd dated and she'd had a hard night at the hospital, we would curl up in bed, her head on my chest, and I would run my fingers through her silky locks until she relaxed and slipped off to sleep. It was an intimate memory—one I hadn't examined in a long time—and it made me feel warmer.

I looked at her again—maybe she really had changed. Because a person can fake a lot of things—but the love I saw in her eyes for Wesley… the absolute adoration… it was honest. And it was new. She had obviously loved Wes before because she'd risked her own life to save him but… but the look was new. And I almost felt like… like sometimes I caught her looking at me with the same honest affection, raw in her features.

I wasn't ready to give in… but I was more open to the possibility. I mean, if somebody was going to make a complete, life-altering change like this… a plane crash was one of the few things that could bring it on believably, right?

She glanced up, realized I was watching her, and blushed, giving me a shy smile. I couldn't remember the last time she'd blushed or looked shy.

Our waiter arrived then, taking placing our plates if front of each of us. Debbie gave him a genuine smile—not flirty, just genuine—and thanked him before scooping Wesley's animal crackers away, telling him he needed to eat his dinner before he could have them back. I added ketchup to my burger while my mother picked the tomato they'd forgotten to leave off her club sandwich and Debbie tugged Wesley's plate a little closer so she could cut up his chicken strips more easily while he chewed on a French fry.

Her long, slender fingers were quick and sure as she maneuvered the food around the plate, pushing the cut up pieces closer so he could begin eating while she finished her task. Her nails weren't long and painted, the way they used to be, but short and even. They were longer than mine, but only just… and left natural. I found myself wondering at the grace of her movements and the simple beauty of clean, even fingernails. I realized that I missed her wearing the wedding ring I'd given her, and it was this realization that tore my eyes from her and onto my meal.

I didn't need to be thinking that way. I needed to focus on my case, and Wesley, and… not falling for the woman who had done so much to destroy me.

My mother's gaze was on me, but I didn't lift my head because I didn't want to see the knowing disapproval in her eyes. I spent the rest of the meal focusing on my food and avoiding the women in my life. After dinner we went back to our room and played some games my mother had bought when she and Wesley went for a walk down the street. We were close to the University, and there were a lot of small, eclectic little shops and boutiques, and she'd found a scrabble board made out of bee hive rows, dried out and glued together to make it possible to fit the little peg-like letters in up, down, and across combinations. She had told the man behind the counter that her son was an entomologist, and he had given her a discount on the board.

It was a really cool board, actually, and I swept Wesley into my lap to play with us. I didn't expect Debbie to even enjoy herself, but to my surprise, she gave my mother and I a run for our money. She made the word Xenon—hadn't she hated chemistry?—on the end of my mother's 'relax' and 'melodious' out of the e in my 'bacterium.' It was more or less a three way tie, which had never happened to us before.

…It had been a long time since I'd had so much fun in such a normal, family-oriented, functional kind of way.

I gave Wesley his bath that night because I felt the need to have some man-time and he giggled and splashed when I scooped his bubbles up to give the pair of us matching bubble beards. With drooping eyes and sweet-smelling skin, Wesley padded into his bedroom in his footie pajamas and pulled several books out of his bag and I read them to him and then tucked him in. My mother came in to kiss him goodnight half-way through the first story, telling me that she was heading to bed, and Debbie came in when I'd finished and was turning the lights off and his nightlight on.

She bent over him, giving him an Eskimo kiss and then brushing her lips over his cheeks and forehead. "Did you and Daddy have fun in your bath tonight?"

"Mmm," He murmured, his eyes fluttering closed and his thumb sneaking up and into his mouth.

She smiled and kissed him again. "Goodnight Wes. I love you so very, very much." A final kiss and a fleeting smile at me, and she was gone. I hugged and kissed him myself, though he looked like he was already sleeping soundly, and whispered my love as well, following Debbie out.

She was putting our game away and I found myself once again alone with her, her soft words of love to our baby fresh in my head. Maybe she had changed… Maybe, just maybe, I could trust her again.

"I, uh… I had a lot of fun tonight."

She looked up at me in surprise and smiled, a little tiredly I thought. "I did too… This game is amazing. We'll have to be careful when we pack it."

I felt myself smiling softly. "…We will. You look tired. You didn't get a nap today… maybe you should turn in early."

She glanced at me and smiled a little hesitantly. "…If I go to sleep, I won't have any more time with just you." I felt myself nodding and feeling that perhaps that didn't sit right with me either. She shrugged, placing the cover of the game over the pieces. "Well, I suppose I'm in your bedroom. I'm sorry, I… I don't mean to demand too much. I know you spent all day with me."

I frowned, wanting to say something to reassure her that I hadn't been telling her to sleep to get some privacy or some time to myself. But doing so would mean telling her that I enjoyed her company… wanted her to stay as much as she wanted to stay. And I didn't want to do that. I couldn't force my mouth to speak the words that would show such vulnerability. …I might be starting to believe her, but I didn't want her to know that.

She looked down and then back at me, taking my silence for assent. "Well… I guess I will head to bed. If… if you… get tired of the couch… the offer is still open. I… I still promise that I won't… try anything." She frowned at the ground again and slipped from the room, quickly and silently, the door closing behind her.

I forced myself to walk to the couch and sit down, listening to the only sounds in the suite—the sounds of her clothing slipping from her small frame and being replaced by the long pants and conservative shirts she'd been sleeping in lately. My mind flickered to the night shirt she'd worn the first night, when we'd had to share a room. Her legs hadn't been their usual tan but porcelain white from months in the hospital, but they were every bit as long and smooth.

Her light turned off and I rotated my body on the couch, resting my head on the pillow still sitting there, staring at the ceiling. It would be hard to sleep tonight, with the new possibilities rolling around in my head. If they'd all been foster children, had he known the girls from those days or had he somehow found out about their pasts after meeting them as an adult?

…I glanced at her door again. If I was up thinking about the case, she probably was too. …Today had been hard for her.

I wondered briefly if she would sleep at all.

I sat up again, planting my feet firmly on the ground and watched her door intently.

I picked up the remote, turned the TV on, and stared at the news channel that was on…

I lay back down and tried to focus on what was going on. This politician was having an affair and that one was suspected of money laundering… there was trouble overseas, natural disasters, storms… and Debbie was in that room, alone, but I was invited.

I turned the TV off.

I looked back at the ceiling, and back at her door, and back at the ceiling again.

I stood up and moved to the pajamas that were sitting, folded, on the coffee table, changing quickly, trying to keep my mind off the closed door and the beautiful brunette within it. I moved around, turning off lights, and sat down on the couch, in the dark, staring at her door.

"Oh fuck," I muttered, getting to my feet and moving all the way over to her door, reaching for the door handle… and hesitating. What would she say? What would I say? …What would this mean? Would this be tantamount to me giving in, taking her back, forgiving her indiscretions…?

I let my hand fall to my side and moved back to the damned couch.


	28. Chapter Twenty Seven

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: :) Let me know what you think. Hopefully I'll have another update up today, but it probably won't be until this evening...

Thanks for all the wonderful reviews!

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Chapter Twenty-Seven:

I woke up alone, again, but that was expected. I could tell I wasn't making much progress—Gil might hate Debbie less, but he didn't love her any more. And if he didn't love her more now than before the crash, it meant that he still didn't love _me_ at all.

I was the first up again, and showered and straightened my hair again quickly, dressing in jeans and a nicer blouse—Gil's first lecture was today and I wanted to go to it. I'm sure he meant for me to spend the day with his mother and Wes, but I would not have missed this lecture for anything in the world had I never known the man… I didn't think that now that I was more or less married to him that I should have to miss it. And Wesley was a quiet kid, especially quiet lately, and… his mother could lip read. There should be no reason either of them didn't want to see him speak.

Worst case scenario, they could spend the day together again. I wanted to see at least one lecture, if I couldn't finagle all of them.

I moved into the living room after dressing and surveyed the man on the couch with a soft smile—his curls were rumbled and rather fluffier than normal, and his face was drawn and tight, a leg stretched out on the coffee table in search of some extra room. He looked like he hadn't slept well at all… maybe I should insist on sleeping with Wes so that he could have a room alone. It wasn't fair that he sleep on the couch simply because he couldn't stand being so close to me.

Wes was up shortly after I had coffee started and by the time I'd dressed and changed him, bringing him out on my hip, Gil was sitting up, squinting in the early morning light, watching the coffee pot across the suite with something akin to longing. I chuckled, setting Wes down and pouring him a cup. I brought it to him as he scooped the child who had run to him into his lap and he looked at me quite sincerely when he thanked me for the cup.

For the very first time since I'd known the man, I felt like he saw me. Not Debbie. Me.

It was enough to make me need to sit from the trembling in my knees.

His lecture was at 10:30, so we had enough time to eat a leisurely breakfast downstairs after he and his mother had showered and dressed. When I suggested we all attend his lecture, Gil had frowned at me, reminding me with no small amount of irritation that his mother was deaf. To which the woman had responded that that had never stopped her from attending a lecture in the past. I smiled at Elaina, and after some brief hesitation, she returned it.

And I immediately felt guilty.

We walked to his lecture hall—he was giving a speech he could have done in his sleep, and had only a small box of slides for this one. I held Wesley's hand while Gil carried his slides and offered his mother his free arm. I knew that he did it because he worried she wouldn't hear a car or something… but she didn't need the assistance, she just liked the closeness with her son.

We arrived a good half hour before the lecture was due to start. We sat in the back so that we could leave easily if Wes got whiny or impatient with sitting still while he set his stuff up and though we were so early, within ten minutes there were students and faculty and community members arriving, filtering in slowly, to hear the Great Gil Grissom speak about forensics and how much the recent developments in the field had revolutionized our justice system. I would know it all, but I was still excited. I had trouble hiding my anticipation from his mother and Wes kept pointing down to Gil at the podium and announcing "Daddy!"

He wasn't loud, however, so I hoped it wouldn't be a problem.

Right at 10:30, Gil stepped up to the podium and the entire lecture hall seemed to hush in anticipation. I found myself immensely proud of him and of the smile that graced his face. As much as he had wanted to stay in Vegas to work on the case, he was in his element here.

The seats were in a semi-circle around his podium, yet he made sure that even when his eyes scanned the entire room, his mouth remained visible to us—for his mother. She smiled too, realizing this. He was such a good man, really—through and through. I knew this about him, but somehow I never ceased to be amazed by it. I was enthralled by him and his lecture and his insight so much that I hardly noticed anyone else in the building—until he glanced at something in the front row and stuttered, looking away to get himself a drink of water.

He excused himself and picked up where he'd left off, and his eyes did not seem drawn to nor away from whatever had caused him to stutter, but I was curious. There had been something…

I leaned forward in my chair, on the pretense of adjusting Wes in my lap—there was a blond in the front row. She had long hair that she kept tossing over her shoulders, which gave me opportunity to appraise her profile, at least. …She might as well have been a supermodel. But there had to be something else… he would have noticed her beauty immediately. I kept watching, suspicious.

She uncrossed and recrossed long, perfect legs encased in a short black skirt, but the manner in which she did so was… strange. It hit me like a slap in the face. She was doing it to draw his attention… and she was slumped back enough in her chair that he would have a more than advantageous view of her underwear while doing so.

I didn't know if I was more shocked or angry… No, that's a lie. It was definitely angry. How _dare_ she proposition _my_ husband?! …Er, well… Debbie's husband. Our husband. ...It didn't matter whose husband he was—he was wearing a damned wedding ring and she was spreading her legs to him like some sort of…

People were around me clapping, a few even standing, and I realized he'd finished. Picking Wesley from my lap and standing to put him on my hip, I clapped too, overcome with anger. Wesley clapped and yelled "Daddy!" again, which would have been adorable, but I… I was just so…

Elaina tapped my arm, and we moved down the stairs towards him, where he was surrounded by people asking questions. The blonde finished her question and slipped by him, brushing her body completely against his as she did, and though he looked surprised, there was a slight smile on his face as well. I felt blind with rage. His wife and child and mother were in the audience and he smiled when a moral-less bimbo rubbed herself against him in public?

I bit back my anger when we reached him, telling him how good he'd done as his mother hugged him and he took Wes into his arms as well. But on the walk home, I couldn't entirely contain it.

"What did you ladies want to do for the rest of the day? We could spend the day by the pool at the hotel?"

"We could go to the aquarium by Pier 39… I bet Wes would like that." I suggested.

He shrugged. "That could be fun… although, I'm kind of tired. Maybe we could do that tomorrow and stay close today…"

"Well as long as it's what you want, I suppose that's what we'll do." I snapped, my arms across my chest and my nails digging into my arms. He frowned, glancing at his mother, who was now a few paces in front of us with Wesley, petting a dog on a leash while his owner smiled and answered her questions.

He looked back to me. "Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean?"

I scowled, but then I had already gone this far. "Just that everything is on your terms. You make all the decisions."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really? Was I the one who decided to sleep with every doctor at Desert Palm? Or to stop sleeping with my husband? Or to take a meaningless shopping trip to San Francisco when my husband was in the middle of a huge career case? The career he was only pursuing because _I_ said I wouldn't marry him if he was _only _going to be a CSI?"

I blinked, surprised once again at the depth of Debbie's selfishness… but then, I was still in the fight. I had never been one to control my anger. It didn't matter that he was right—I had to fight back.

"You haven't exactly been perfect, you know?"

He scowled. "Oh? Do enlighten me how _I've_ hurt _you_, Debbie."

It was all I could do to maintain the lower tone of voice we'd been speaking in due to the people around us—I wanted to scream. "What color was your blonde-in-the-first-row's underwear, I wonder?" My voice was all venom, all spite, all hurt.

He paused for a moment, taken aback… and then his features hardened. "She wasn't wearing any."

He turned away from me, caught up with his mother, and scooped Wesley up in his arms. They continued walking, and I was left to follow behind.


	29. Chapter Twenty Eight

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! :) This may be the last update for the night. If not, it's at least the last one until SNL is over. Hehe.

Oh, and Jelly--there's a line in here just for you. ...Although, I thought you were the director? Did the producers give their okay for a cameo?

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight:

Women!

No, really. Who on the face of the entire fucking planet could understand them?

Maybe it was just this particular woman in particular. My mother certainly didn't seem like such a god damned lunatic.

Seriously, she cheats on me for months and because she's in some plane crash she thinks that everything is different? She thinks that she has the right to be mad at me for inadvertently looking up a woman's skirt and then deliberately looking away, after everything she's put me through?

And for what? It came out of fucking nowhere! Things had been so much better and…

…Well, it's a blessing in disguise, anyway. To think I'd been seconds away from going to her last night. And though she had said she wouldn't try anything and in my head I had rationalized that I would simply sleep beside her—she was my wife, after all, I could do that much—I knew what would have happened if I'd crawled into her bed again. Because she had made no mystery of her renewed interest in me, and she was a beautiful woman…

No, it wasn't just that. Debbie had always been beautiful, but the thought of her just six months ago would be enough to drop the world's biggest erection into something flaccid and ineffectual. Sex without love—or, at the very least, the absence of hate—was pointless. The fact that she was inspiring rather than killing said erections again… said more than I would admit to.

So it was good that she was showing her true colors again. Her temper, her jealousy, her fucking insanity.

…She hadn't even been a natural blonde.

Oh, shit, like that even _matters_! What the hell is this woman even doing to me? I. am. losing. my. mind.

I contained my anger, hiding it from my mother, because she would know that it came as much from her actions as from the fact that I had started trusting the woman again. I took Wes immediately into his own room, changing him into a swimmer and his sesame street swim trunks—they were green, with Oscar the grouch on them. Don't ask me why my son didn't decide to love Big Bird or Elmo—he loved Oscar.

I pulled him with me into Debbie's room, where my luggage was, ignoring the surprised look on both my mother and Debbie's faces and my mother calling my name. I stripped quickly out of my dress slacks and button down and into generic blue swimming trunks, scooping Wes up again. In a minute, we were out of the bedroom and I was pulling the room key from my wallet and the sun screen from the table.

"We're going to the pool. If you ladies would like to join us, you're welcome."

I let the door slam behind me, but instantly regret it. I had forgotten, in my haste, to act naturally enough to blow off my mother's questions. "Well fuck." I muttered to myself.

"Truck?" Wesley asked me, and I kicked myself. Now I was corrupting my child. Oh good.

"Yep, truck. Should we go swimming, Wes?"

He gave a soft smile. "Swimmy?"

I chuckled and laid a kiss on his head. The only family member of mine who I could safely say I never sought to avoid. We needed some time to bond, sans the women, anyway.

I took him to a table with an umbrella and sat him on it so he'd been completely shaded and applied the sunscreen liberally, playing peek-a-boo and going through which body parts he could name—he'd just learned 'elbow' and always giggled when I asked where his were—for fifteen minutes, so the sunscreen would be effective, and then I pulled him out with me to the pool.

They had a kid's pool that at its deepest was only about a foot and a half. And because it was the middle of the day and hardly summer, the pool area was deserted. I sat down against the edge of the pool with water up to my chest while he ran around and splashed, realizing with a bit of surprise that he hadn't been quiet or sullen or detached for most of the trip. I mean, sure, he'd been quiet in the car… but car rides tended to put him to sleep.

This brought a smile to my face and I jumped up, chasing him around the little pool until he was breathless with giggling. Neither my mother not Debbie came out, and within another twenty minutes I was wrapping Wes up in a towel. We hadn't been out long, but I was calmer, and he looked like he was ready for a nap. And I would have to face Debbie sooner or later.

It wasn't that I was upset she was jealous—it was, endearing, actually. She hadn't acted jealous in years—though, I suppose, I hadn't given her reason in years. It was the anger she had confronted me with. How dare she be angry at me for looking when she had acted on such things far more often than I even wanted to know?

…I didn't want to get worked up again.

I let us back into the room with a "Hello Ladies," directed at their surprised gazes and took Wesley back into his room for a fresh diaper and a change of clothes before his nap. He went down quickly, apparently having been exhausted by our swim, and when I moved back out, my mother was gone. At my raised eyebrow, Debbie shrugged.

"She went to take a nap…"

I nodded and, having had it in my head to act as though nothing had happened, I moved to sit in the armchair next to the couch on which she was sitting. I tried to watch the television, but she made it impossible—she only watched me. After a full five minutes trying to ignore her gaze, I sighed and turned to her.

"Yes?"

She frowned a little and put her hand flat to her chest, moving it in a clockwise circle. The ASL sign for please. I frowned. What?

"Please what?"

She frowned again, her lips puckering in frustration, and she repeated the motion with a fist instead. _Sorry_.

I felt my anger soften.

"…When did you learn sign language?"

She shrugged a little. "It's boring, during the day, at home… especially while your mom and Wes are napping. …I thought, you know, if I understood… then your mom wouldn't have to talk. She'd be more comfortable and… I dunno, I… I feel like I have a lot to make up for with her."

I felt my whole face soften. "After I realized… I didn't look anymore." I didn't feel like I owed her the explanation, but… she hadn't faked the sign language. And my mother wouldn't have told her just to help her get back in my good graces. My mother hated her.

She nodded, slowly. "I know. …I'm really sorry, Gil. Not just for this. I… I'm sorry for everything."

And I found myself nodding too. I looked down at my feet and she stifled a yawn. I frowned. "Go take a nap, Debbie… You need your rest."

She shook her head. "I'm not tired because of my injuries. I… didn't sleep very well last night."

"…Why not?

She shrugged, but the blush in her cheeks gave away what she wouldn't say—she had stayed up, hoping I would change my mind and go to bed with her. I frowned, uncertain how to respond, and she shook her head again.

"It's fine, Gil, really. Please don't… don't worry about… anything."

She moved into the bedroom and I stood, intending to follow her—to what end, I don't know—but my phone rang instead. I pulled it out, intending to ignore the call unless it was…

Brass.

I glanced at the doorway she'd left open, and moved instead out onto the balcony to take the call.


	30. Chapter Twenty Nine

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: Thanks again for the lovely reviews. :)

...So it's supposed to snow a bunch today and tomorrow, which might mean another snow day tomorrow--no work and no school means lots of time to write...

Cross your fingers for me!

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Nine:

"Grissom."

"Hey Gil," drawled Jim Brass in an attempt at nonchalance. Which told me that something had happened. I cleared my throat.

"Hello Jim." I replied carefully. "What can I do for you?"

The smile in his voice told me he knew that neither of us was fooling the other with our false calms. "Well, you, uh… you asked me to talk to child services. As the girls are dead, they were happy to comply, however… I've only received one girls' file at this point. Michelle Greene. The most recent victim."

Immediately I was relaying the details I knew about this woman—African-American, 25, lawyer, tourist, found in hotel room, Los Altos address. And now, she was four out of five of the victims that had been in foster care.

"Anything stand out?"

"Not much… She was moved through about four foster homes between the ages of…" I heard him flipping a page. "Six and twelve. The fifth one seemed to stick—she stayed there until she graduated—it was up in Sacramento. So if there's a San Francisco connection, I'm gonna guess it was the fourth one—the first three were in the L.A. area."

I nodded, remembering the addresses from the boxes in the woman's basement. She had labeled each by address rather than… I dunno, name, age, date?

"Well, listen… I'm gonna check if this hotel's got a fax machine I can use. A business center or something. I'll give you a call back; I want to see the file."

He chuckled. "I figured you'd say as much… there're photos in here as well. I wanna say child services wouldn't have sent them if they'd known…"

I frowned. "Why's that?"

"There're other children in the photos with her. According to the dates she was in each home, at least… I dunno, three, four of these were from the house in… Los Altos, was it? They don't include names, mind you, so it might not be any help at all. I figured I wouldn't call and ask for the names only to have the pictures taken back…"

I smiled. Jim was a man after my own heart. "Thanks Jim. I'll let you know."

"Great. Hey—how's the vacation? I know you're working more than you ought to, but I hope you're taking a little time for yourself."

I scoffed. "Yeah, I'm taking my mandatory vacation really easy. Thanks for the concern." My voice was dry, and it inspired a laugh from the other man.

"How's the family?"

I groaned, eager to get the new information. "Just fine, Jim. They're riding street cars and singing about Rice-A-Roni. I'll let you know about the fax number."

He was still laughing when I hung up and slipped back inside the hotel room. Debbie was waiting for me. "Something about your case?"

I frowned. "Yeah… we've got some records from child services. I'm gonna see if this place has a fax machine I can use… You should really get some rest, Debbie."

She shook her head. "I'm coming with you."

I frowned. "You can't come with me. You're a civilian. Debbie—"

"Just like I was when you introduced me as being 'from the Las Vegas Crime Lab'?"

I clenched my teeth. All I wanted was to find a damned fax machine and see what was in that file. "Fine. Whatever. If you get me fired it will be your own damned fault." I said, moving quickly to slip into shoes, realizing belatedly that I was still clad in slightly damp swim trunks. I hesitated, and decided I didn't care. I moved through the doorway with knowledge that she was following behind me silently.

I spoke with the front desk and they directed me to a small room with two computers, a printer, copier, and a fax machine. And a coffee machine. Of course. I smiled at the device as I pulled out my cell phone, dialing Brass back and reading off the fax numbers twice before he repeated them back to me. We hung up, and within minutes the fax machine was humming as page after page appeared and I added it to the neat stack, trying to take it everything each page had to offer before the next one came through and failing miserably.

There were pages of status reports, check-ups, doctor's appointments, bios of the people with whom she'd stayed. And then there were photographs… Brass had sent all of them, but I piled the grainy black-and-white copies that didn't match the right time period and looked at the four that did.

One was Michelle, her hair in pigtails, around the age of eight, smiling and waving—but she looked rather skinny. Her eyes held a haunted look, and I wondered if they'd looked that way since she entered foster care or if it came from the homes she'd been in.

The second was an older Michelle, ten maybe, with her arms around two other children. The smile was still there, but dimmed. The eyes were noticeably more distant. The children on either side of her were smiling too, but seemed to lack the optimism of Michelle. They were fairly non-descript children, and without names it wasn't much to go on.

The third was of Michelle with tears in her eyes—twelve, maybe… she had the very beginnings of an adult body and her face looked like it had thinned from the last picture. She had a long cut across one cheek and scratches up her arms, a raised lump on the top of her head. I squinted at the picture, putting two and two together. She'd left the last foster home—the one in Los Altos—at the age of twelve. This was probably why.

The final picture was not, after all, of the Los Altos home, though the girl still had a visible mark on her face where the cut hadn't completely healed. She was with a couple who had their arms around her, smiling, and her eyes looked like they'd gained some brightness back. …It would have felt like a happy ending, yet I knew exactly where it really ended—on a bed in a hotel room, naked, her hair covering her face, her hands too clean for the manner of her death—her wrists had been slit, but she'd been well-cleaned after the fact.

I sighed, sadly, placing the pictures back in the pile and glancing up at Debbie, who I'd all but forgotten was even with me until now. She looked pale, and sad, and I regret my decision to let her tag along instantly. I sighed, picking up the stack of papers and glancing around to be certain I'd left nothing behind.

"Come on. …Let's go back to the room."

She followed me silently again, but it was a sullen, smothered kind of silence and it bothered me more than the smug, knowing silence that had accompanied her into this room to start with.


	31. Chapter Thirty

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Wrote this just before rushing out to class. If there're more mistakes than normal, that's why, and I'm sorry. :)

Enjoy! Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Chapter Thirty:

I knew both children. I didn't know the girl in the center with the smile covering the pain in her eyes, but I knew the other two. The girl on Michelle's right was… Kayla something. She'd lived with Rachel and I… if I had to guess, it would have been after this picture was taken. And the boy on her left… Mikey? No, Matti? Jamie? God, I couldn't be certain, maybe it had been something else. Neither of the children smiled the way Michelle did. Kayla had always been a serious little girl—weren't we all, to some extent?—and she had the tiniest hint of a smile on her face. And the boy… the boy looked sullen. His lips were turned up, but it didn't look like a smile. His cheeks were drawn, his gaze unerring.

I had known him much older than this picture… when I was fifteen. He was a year older than me, and… creepy.

But most of the teenage boys in foster care had been creepy. You lived with people you weren't related to, you had minimal supervision and more baggage between you than the average commercial airplane could hold, and you were just self-destructive enough to think that the risk would be worth letting the pimple-faced creep grope you a little. As soon as the boys realized that it wasn't about them, it was about your own desire to drown yourself in bad decisions, they became persistent. It was quite the miracle that I managed to escape foster care with my virginity intact and, in truth, almost entirely unthreatened. But I had been the exception.

I followed Gil numbly. Silently. Lost in thought.

Because I was reliving a whole shit load of the things which had haunted my nightmares for years and years, and I just really couldn't put on a mask and pretend to be Debbie right now. I couldn't pretend to not know what had happened to the people in the pictures and the girls on his lists and I couldn't pretend to not know that they were still a long ways from nailing the bastard, which meant that sooner or later, there would be another body.

I couldn't be Debbie right now, or even Sara Sidle, CSI. I was Sara, small, alone, and afraid.

If I couldn't pretend to be Debbie, I needed to be quiet. When we got back to the room, I went to take the nap he'd suggested. I stayed in there until Gil told Wesley to go wake up Mommy and see if she wanted to get up and have supper. I very nearly declined… I could say that I was sick, or tired, or cramping…anything. But Wesley looked so hopeful when he climbed into bed and said "Mama eat?" that I couldn't help it. I sat up, brushed my hair and straightened my clothes, and let the two year old lead me out.

His mother glanced at me somewhat disinterestedly, turning her gaze to Wes instead and putting out her arms to encourage him to run to her. He did, and then I had nothing to occupy myself… no where to put my hands. I crossed them over my chest and looked to Gil. He looked… concerned. His gaze was unwavering as it took in the lines in my forehead and the tightness in my eyes. I tried to look away, to hide it, but I know he saw. He wasn't considered one of the best forensic minds in the country for nothing.

His mother wanted to try a Mexican restaurant that was down the street… it was a college place, and I knew it'd be loud, but I couldn't really protest… I shouldn't know anything about it. A few of the girls I'd been friends with—not super close, but enough to go out every once and a while—had taken me there for margaritas. I just hoped I wouldn't see any of them tonight. Even with Debbie's face, I didn't really have the tolerance for it, tonight.

We walked there again, and I carried Wesley because it made me feel so much better to hold him close and know that he was safe and that he would never have to go live with strangers and be scared and neglected. When we walked in, I cringed at the noise from the bar and the hostess must have noticed, because she sat us on the other end of the restaurant. It was still loud, but it was better than expected. The hostess brought me a high chair and I got Wes situated while Gil and his mother slid into the booth. I glanced up, after a moment, and realizing that I would have no choice but to sit right up against one of them, I sat next to Gil.

Normally his proximity would have done amazing things to me… on a brave and impulsive night, I might have put my hand on his thigh. Tonight, however, I was just so drained that the nearness felt like an extra weight on me. I had to worry about my arm or my leg brushing against him and whether he would think it was intentional. I was tense all the way through the meal, disregarding the chips and salsa we started with entirely, loading up instead on coke. Caffeine was my drug-of-choice as it was, and the bite of coke is almost refreshing when you feel so numb.

Before the food arrived, Elaina excused herself to go to the restroom, and Gil caught my arm, just above the elbow I had pressed to the table. I probably jumped a foot, but he kept his hold on me.

"Debbie… are you okay?"

I glanced at him. The concern in his eyes was genuine. I swallowed. "Yeah, I… I'm fine."

He still didn't release me. "Tell me what it is…"

I averted my eyes. "Nothing, Gil. I'm just… tired. So tired."

He frowned. "You got 'tired' right after you came down to the fax machine with me. Is the case what's upsetting you?"

I frowned too, tugging my arm uselessly in a failed attempt to break free from his hold. "No. I… I just feel… sore. I still get… tired."

He opened his mouth to question me further when the waiter arrived, and he had to let go of my arm to take the plate he was being offered. I busied myself cutting up Wesley's mini tacos and by the time I had finished, Elaina was sliding back into the booth, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

I didn't have much of an appetite—I ate what I could, even though the food was amazing, and just kept emptying my glass for the free refills. If I'd been less of a caffeine fiend, I'd be worried it would keep me up all night, but as it was, I really wasn't concerned.

Gil watched me out of the side of his eye most of the meal, so when Wesley seemed like he was done, I made the excuse of taking him to the bathroom to clean up and change his diaper. I swept him from the table, happy for the escape, only to find that I had left the diaper bag at the table. I swore under my breath, setting Wesley on the vanity anyway and wetting a few paper towels to wipe off his fingers and cheeks.

A toilet flushed behind me and I scooted Wes closer to the sink I was using, to free up the one I was not for the person using the facilities. When she walked out of the stall, it was all I could do not to swear out loud. Katie. My occasional friend and margarita buddy. She did a bit of a double take when she saw me, but on the second glance seemed to shake her head. I knew exactly what she was thinking, and for the first time I felt rather grateful to not have my own face.

She moved to the open sink, and glanced over again, first at my face, and then at Wesley. "He's a cutie."

I smiled, thankful as well that my voice had been changed so much from the smoke damage. "Thank you."

"What's his name?" She asked, scrubbing soap onto her hands.

"Wesley."

She grinned. "Cute. Did you name him after _The Princess Bride_?"

I knew the movie, but I didn't know why Gil and Debbie had chosen to name him Wesley. I shrugged. "Not really, but I love the movie…"

She smiled, turning her faucet off and grabbing paper towels. "Well, he's a little doll…" She tossed the towels into the garbage and swept from the room, and I sighed in relief. I gave her about thirty seconds to head back to the bar, and then I scooped Wes up and took him back to the table, sans the diaper change for which I had no supplies.

They were ready to go, although Gil's eyes were ever more focused on me now. It made me feel uncomfortable, like evidence under a microscope… or one of his bugs. I cringed, trying desperately to ignore him and the headache that had been threatening since we'd arrived here. The walk home was long, and quiet, and I gave Wesley to Gil and immediately went back to my room, closing the door, changing into pajamas, and crawling into bed.

I was in over my head, and right now, it was more than I could handle.

I think I must have fallen asleep immediately… I have a fuzzy sort of awareness of my door opening and closing shortly after I laid down, and of hearing Wes giggle in the tub, and the closing of several doors. And I swear I remember my own door, again, opening and closing. I wrote it off, half asleep or more, assuming Gil was simply getting his pajamas and would soon leave.

I don't remember my door again, but I remember feeling so very, very warm.


	32. Chapter Thirty One

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: I may update this again tonight, but it's possible I won't. Just fair warning. :)

...Hope you enjoy this one. It's been building for a long time.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-One:

I had crawled into bed with Debbie. No, not just that. I had watched her all night look quiet and desperate and uncomfortable and sad, and I had wanted nothing else but to wrap my arms around her and make her look… I don't know, differently. Make her look happy… alive… her normal vivacious and self-assured self. And when she retreated after having spent the whole second half of the day in bed, my mind started making the considerations again.

She was my wife, she had invited me to share her bed many times since she'd come home from the hospital, she was… vulnerable, right now, and needed someone. It had been a very long time since I'd seen Debbie need any emotional support… Had she always been so soft-hearted that she'd struggle with seeing the childhood pictures of people who had been murdered? When we'd first started dating, she'd cried during movies… books… I'd thought her to be a rather sympathetic person in general.

Had she changed and changed back, or had I simply stopped seeing the human side of Debbie when she pushed me away? Why had she pushed me away? Was it about Wesley… her youth… was it something I'd done? She'd told me she didn't know, and that wasn't good enough… yet, when she'd said it, her eyes sparked with honesty. I felt like she really didn't know… and maybe that was worse. If she didn't know why she'd gone astray, who could say that she really wouldn't do so again?

…But she was alone. And whatever she'd done in the past, it was overwhelmingly clear that she wasn't the same person anymore. She'd changed in ways that a person couldn't manipulate—mannerisms she didn't know she had, the sheer expressiveness of her lips and eyes, the way she moved and oriented her body. I didn't know yet _why_ she had changed and whether I believed her that the plane crash had forced her to reprioritize… but it was obvious that she had.

I gave Wesley his bath, I watched TV with my mother, I looked over the case file and over my lecture notes for the next day… but my mind didn't leave the brunette behind the closed door who had seemed so upset tonight. So when she went to bed and I was confronted with the necessity of going into the room to get my pajamas, even if I didn't crawl into bed with her.

Which I was very seriously considering.

I paced the living room long after the light had flickered off in my mother's room. And finally, I decided that I would need to get pajamas whether I crawled into bed or not. It didn't make any sense to put it off. And I was turning out the lights in the living room so that they wouldn't wake her, when I opened the door. Clearly, she needed her rest… Seriously, I… I wasn't planning to stay in there. She needed sleep and…

Well, honestly. You look at a beautiful woman be sad for an entire day and know that you're the only one she has to comfort her… and know that she's your wife, and that she wants you in her bed, and you tell me that you'd stay away.

…So I turned out the lights, moved into the bedroom and closed the door… and realized too late that I couldn't find my pajamas in the dark. But I could clearly make out her form on the bed—she was wearing long pants and a hooded sweatshirt. The hood was over her head and she had drawn her knees up to her chest, keeping her arms pressed tight to her chest. Like she was huddling up for warmth… like she was trying to protect herself from some unseen, outside intruder… like she wanted to be smaller than she was.

I hesitated for the space of a breath, and then I was unbuckling my belt and unbuttoning my shirt to stand at the end of the bed in socks, boxers, and an undershirt. I breathed in deeply, giving myself one more moment to back out, and then moved decisively to the open side of the bed, sitting on the edge slowly and carefully, so as not to wake her. She didn't stir, and I pulled back the blankets, tucking my legs beneath them quickly and settling against the pillow.

The problem was that this was most certainly not enough. She looked so… meek, the way she was curled up. I moved until I was right behind her, and she was so still that I wondered briefly if she was still breathing, but upon closer inspection I could see her chest expanding and contracting with each puff of oxygen into her lungs. One final hesitation and I had wrapped my arms around her from behind, pulling her back tight to my chest and allowing myself the secret indulgence of breathing in the scent of her and her hair.

Even that was different. But I liked it… maybe this is what Debbie had always smelled like, under the heavy perfumes...

The moment was enough to make me disregard my doubts—they were there, but I wasn't thinking about them just now. I'd worry more in the morning. Tonight, I was done thinking.

The problem was, it was now morning, and I _was_ thinking. I hadn't let go of her all night, it seemed. She had turned towards me, her head resting on my chest and her body tucked intimately into the crook of my arm. She long one long leg between mine, her calf tucked beneath mine in an intimate possession. And what would I say when she woke up? How would I explain myself and the fact that this didn't mean that I trusted her.

Maybe I could sneak out before she even became aware…

Her eyes fluttered open at that moment and I held my breath. So much for that thought. She blinked a few times, and then her head lifted and she looked up to me with eyes that were dark and deep, sleepy and confused. She didn't know why I was here, but for the moment it seemed she didn't entirely care. She put her head back to my chest and snuggled closer.

Debbie had never, ever been a cuddler. And I was. I was apparently the rare and elusive male who actually _wanted_ to cuddle after sex. Yet here she was, nuzzling her nose against my chest, her arm and leg squeezing me closer.

I cleared my throat, uncertain. "I… I'm sorry for… sleeping here, last night. I… I didn't know if the offer still stood but… the couch…"

She didn't need my explanation or my reasons, lies though they were. She held me tighter and sighed. "The offer always stands. I… I'm really happy… that you're here."

I stared at the ceiling, uncertain how to respond to such naked honesty and vulnerability. She had been putting herself out there ever since she'd changed, telling me she would wait until I changed my mind, even if I never did… She had been able to talk for some time now, and didn't have a cell phone, and yet the home phone bill didn't list any calls placed to numbers I didn't recognize. She hadn't talked to any of her lovers… my mother had told me she hadn't been leaving the house while I was at work.

Maybe it was time to trust her. I shifted a little, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. It was early. I was willing to bet that neither Wes nor my mother would be awake yet… maybe we had the time to… have an honest discussion. See where this could take us.

I looked down at her, and she tilted her head up in response, our eyes meeting, our lips so very much closer than I had expected. My breath caught in my throat and her eyes filled with longing. And all I wanted in that moment was to satisfy the longing—hers and mine—and let things go. Let myself stop being cautious and trust her and take the happiness she was offering without thought to the consequences and the things she must still be hiding.

I leaned in, just a little… it was a test, of sorts. Her eyelids fluttered and her breathing increased, but she did not close the space between us. She waited for me… it was on my terms that something would happen. That wasn't old Debbie, but instead of questioning why, I rejoiced. I had not liked nor loved the woman who had boarded the plane, but I was truly beginning to care about the woman who had found her way out of it. I liked that she was different.

And when I pressed my lips to hers, soft enough to be gentle but firm enough to be decisive, I liked that she didn't try to dominate the kiss the way she used to. I liked that she gasped gently, and that I could feel her eyelashes fluttering against my cheeks, and that her lips felt smaller and yet warmer against mine. I liked the tingles the kiss sent up and down my spine and I liked the whimper in the back of her throat that told me it was affecting her just as strongly.

The kiss filled me up, made me feel powerful, made me feel alive. I wanted to bang my fists on my chest and any other assortment of idiotic displays of masculinity, because this Debbie who was kissing me back made me feel like a _man_.

And I acted on it. I let my hands roam to her cheeks and around to the back of her neck. I let myself move until she was beneath me, I let my tongue slide against her lips and slip inside to tease hers, and I let myself let go. I wanted her, badly—good lord, taking care of business in the shower for two-fucking-years is enough to make a man desperate, and I was. My hands slid down her arms, found her waist, and pushed underneath her sweatshirt to toy with the oh-so-soft fabric of her tank top.

She moaned—literally moaned into my mouth—just at the feel of my hands on her stomach. I was seeing stars behind my closed eyelids as I tried desperately to pull the sweatshirt off her frame. For some reason, it was the most complicated piece of clothing I'd even come into contact with, and I was about ready to tear it off her when she gave me a pacifying smile and sat up, pulling it over her head and causing the tank top to slide up a ways with it.

To show her lower back… missing one large butterfly tattoo.


	33. Chapter Thirty Two

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Okay, last for the night. :) Hope you enjoy!

Thanks for the lovely reviews, btw!

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Chapter Thirty-Two:

I woke up in heaven.

Gil was in bed with me, holding me, and when I turned to look at him… he seemed hesitant, but… not unhappy or…regretful. I snuggled closer, and though he nervously started explaining, I heard what he didn't say: He had wanted to be here with me. He still did. …Or, He'd wanted to be here with Debbie. It amounted to the same thing, and I pressed myself closer to him, loving how solidly masculine he felt beneath me. I had questioned my choice to let myself become Debbie more times than I could count, but I knew now exactly why I'd disregarded what I knew was right. This was too wonderful to have missed out on.

And when he turned his head to look at me, it was only natural that I meet his eyes and catch my breath at the sheer nearness… the sudden stillness to the air around us and the sudden tension in my body. I wanted him to kiss me, so badly. …I didn't just want to kiss him, I wanted him to initiate. To make the decision. So that he couldn't say that it was unintentional or that it hadn't meant anything… he needed to decide to bridge the space between us.

He leaned in, pausing so close that I could feel his breath against my lips. The sheer nearness of him was driving me crazy… I wanted this man so very badly. I hadn't gone two years without, like he had, but it had certainly been a while… And then he kissed me, gently, decisively, simply.

It is no miracle—no great mystery or timeless puzzle—how one kiss can become so much more in the space of a breath. But when it did… when kissing him had turned my body to fire and dragged us both into a passionate embrace that was leading to one place only… it was amazing, breathtaking, awe-inspiring. I had never, ever, responded so strongly to a man, and I felt like his need for me was the same… enlightened. Like seeing the face of god—something wonderful that fills you with certainty and purpose.

He slid his hands under my shirt and my whole body trembled in response as a moan bubbled up from within me. I was putty in this man's hands… anything, I would do anything he wanted, so long as he would never stop what he was doing to me. He struggled to remove my sweatshirt, and after a moment I sat up, smiling and tugging it over my head, eager to keep the interruption between us short.

I turned back to him, eager to recapture his lips. It was early… we had time for a long, slow love-making session. I wanted to do everything in my power to please him… making sure he didn't regret changing his mind and trusting me again. But he had paused, his eyes tight, his lips parted. It took me a full three seconds of silence before I realized where his eyes were trained—he seemed to come to his senses as soon as I understood, jumping to his feet like he'd been burned.

My eyes were wide—I didn't want to blurt it out. For Debbie, it would be no big deal… she wouldn't understand his exaggerated reaction. I swallowed. "…What… what is it, Gil?"

Tears filled my eyes at the look in his—he looked betrayed, and confused, and angry. I blinked them back, biting my bottom lip. He clenched his jaw. "I… I don't… Who are you?!" It was less a question than an accusation but I had years of foster care to thank for my ability to hide my emotions.

I carefully but on a confused look of disbelief, showing nothing else. "…What do you mean, who am I? I'm your wife! The wife you were about to…"

"Fuck?" He supplied, his voice hard, and I struggled to keep the emotion from my face. That had hurt.

I looked down. "…make love to."

He snorted in disbelief—actually snorted. "Right… I… Is this another game? I don't understand…"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Gil!" I said, the tears slipping from my eyes genuine, though they were for his harsh words, not my inability to understand his anger.

He watched me for a moment, and shook his head. "What happened to your tattoo, Debbie? They're permanent; they don't just… go away. You… No wonder you've been so god-damned different. You're not the same person. I… God, I don't even know how that's _possible!_"

He ran a hand through his hair in agitation, turning towards the door and then turning back to me, his anger getting the best of him. "Well?! What do you have to say for yourself?!"

I was actually cowering before his anger—he had never yelled, at me or even in front of me—and I found it rather frightening. I whimpered. "I… had it removed, Gil… in San Francisco. I… it was gone before the crash."

His eyes narrowed. "Removed?"

I nodded, wiping frantically at my cheeks. "They… The spa had a new… It's called Intense Pulsed Light Therapy. …It breaks down the ink so it's small enough for your immune system to clear it all away, just like lasers, but… it doesn't leave the same scars…"

His jaw was still clenched, and I could see his eyes working. I thanked a god I didn't believe in that I had looked the procedure up in detail before this. "Why… would you have it removed? You loved it."

I swallowed. I wanted to tell him I'd removed it because it was trashy and it reminded me of all the lovers whose butterfly jewelry I'd trashed, but I hadn't 'changed' until after the plane crash. I sighed. "Without the scar tissue that would come from laser removal, I could get a different butterfly done. I... wanted to change it up."

He frowned, now looking like he was uncertain. Like his instincts told him that he was right, but logically my words seemed to be a decent explanation for what had seemed an impossible situation. He sighed, running his hand through his hair again. He paused, looking at the floor, and then shook his head, snatched the pair of jeans he'd left on the floor the night before, and stepped into them, buttoning them as he left the room.

I didn't know what to do now, however. One minute we're kissing passionately and I know exactly where it's going… and the next I'm alone and have no idea what's coming. I wiped my cheeks again, sniffling, uncertain. His anger had been so close, so real… his words had hurt. Despite what he believed I'd done to him in the past, this was the first time the man had intentionally hurt me. Sure, there was the whole issue with the blonde… but he'd been telling the truth when he said he'd looked away.

I stayed in bed, trying desperately not to cry any more than I already had as I listened to the sounds of Gil making coffee, showering, and apparently re-dressing in just his day-old jeans. Then his mother was up, but they were signing to each other… I had no idea what they were saying. She got coffee as well… and showered as well… and then Wesley was up, and Gil was talking to him, changing his diaper, dressing him.

The little family was functioning without me, and I wondered what I'd ever been thinking. They'd believed I was Debbie for four months now and this was the first time I'd even gotten close to having the kind of relationship I wanted with Gil… and now… it felt like I'd never been further from it.

Eventually, Gil knocked on the door again, announced he was getting a spare change of clothes, and that if I wanted to go to his lecture, I needed to be up and dressed in an hour. He was going to change and then they were heading down for breakfast, I was welcome to join them. His words were polite, but his tone was cold.

He left, and I dragged myself up, dressing quickly in jeans and a t-shirt, uncaring, brushing my hair and attempting to disguise the red around my eyes with makeup and failing miserably. When I went to brush my teeth, the hotel room was already empty and while I thought about finding them downstairs for breakfast, the thought of food made my stomach turn.

I drank coffee, alone, until they came back to the room… and then we left for his lecture. I wanted to cling to Wesley again… let his proximity and his love reassure me. But I felt almost like it was… wrong. I let Elaina take him, and I walked with my arms crossed over my chest, looking at my feet, the several blocks to the lecture hall.

The only thing that could make this morning worse, of course, happened as well. That horrible trampy blonde was in the front row again, and even though I didn't want to, I looked at Gil as soon as we walked in, anxious to see his reaction. He blushed—he actually blushed at the sight of her, when he'd walked away from me this morning—and though I knew wasn't right, I also couldn't stand here beside him, pretending nothing had changed. I turned from him and walked up the steps to the back of the lecture hall without a word, fighting back the tears.


	34. Chapter Thirty Three

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews! Let me know what you think of this one! There won't be another update until tonight, at least. I have a test on the romantic period in an hour and a half soo... yeah. :)

Jelly... So, I had to read your review twice before I understood it. Apparently I'm a rather naive smut-writer. :) ...And, Does your husband know you're planning on having character sex with a married Grissom? :P

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Chapter Thirty-Three:

I didn't know what to think. She… seemed to know what she was talking about, and… it was something Debbie… pre-crash Debbie, that is… would have done. She'd gotten the tattoo for me. Well, kind of. She'd wanted to get a lower back tattoo anyway, but she said she'd chosen the butterfly for me. Of course, I no longer felt affection when I thought of the tattoo… how many men had given her butterfly bracelets and necklaces and anklets and lingerie and any number of other things that she'd made a point to flaunt in front of me? The symbol had been distorted. So it was like her—vain and insensitive—to remove the one she'd gotten for me in favor of a newer, prettier one. And I was happy to see it go.

But something just didn't… sit right.

Maybe it was that I was already suspicious… I already had my doubts. To throw that big of a surprise in to the mix… of course I lost it. Of course I went running away despite her seemingly logical explanation.

I didn't like how… frightened she looked either. She'd looked genuinely hurt when I'd said we were about to 'fuck' as opposed to 'making love.' At the time, I was happy. I wanted her to be hurt because she had hurt and confused and complicated everything in my life to this point… but I felt guilty.

She didn't talk… she went back to the way she'd acted the day before, which had inspired me to crawl into her bed in the first place. …She hardly talked to Wesley, even, which made me feel guiltier. …Could she honestly blame me for not trusting her, all things considered?

I had just reassured myself that no, no one could blame me for doubting her, when we entered the lecture hall… and I saw the blonde woman who had been so blatant in her interest the day before, sitting in the front row again. I blushed, remembering the moment I'd realized what she was doing and what I'd been seeing and the sheer _balls_ it took to do something like that.

And then Debbie was walking away, without a word, and I felt… uncertain. Was I upset that she was leaving? Yes. But… should I feel guilty for it? Had I really done anything wrong?

…I trudged over to the podium, carefully keeping my eyes from the woman in question. Generally I preferred brunettes—when I'd married Debbie, I'd told her how lucky I was to get to spend the rest of my life with the most beautiful woman I'd ever know… and I'd meant those words. She was exactly my type—hair, face, body… But I wasn't about to say that this other woman wasn't striking. Today she wore a dress instead of a skirt, and stilettos instead of the sensible black heels she'd had on the day before. The dress was red, and short, and her legs were so very, very long.

I blushed again when I glanced up and realized she was aware of my perusal of her body. And with another wave of guilt, my eyes flashed to the back of the room where my mother and Debbie sat side by side. The older woman was occupied by Wesley, who was sitting in her lap. And Debbie… Debbie was watching me, her lips pursed, tears visible in her eyes even from this distance.

God Damn It. She'd fucked the entire surgeon's unit at Desert Palm and I couldn't look at a single other woman? I found myself seething with anger, and it was with extreme effort that I controlled it… tamped it down… to clear my throat and start my lecture. It was a bit more specific today—less about forensics in general changing the justice system, and more about the application of forensics… how things were used, the different methods, and especially the use of insects in forensics. Tomorrow my lecture was an in-depth look at creating a timeline via insects, but today I would go into the other ways in which insects could be useful at a crime scene.

It was a lecture I knew well and I spent most of it turned towards my mother, so she could see my mouth moving, my eyes carefully avoiding the blonde in front who had crossed and uncrossed her legs far too many times for it to be innocent. I did not know if she was lacking undergarments as she had been yesterday, because I did not look, but either way she had my attention.

It was almost a relief to finish, simply because I was tired of avoiding looking up her skirt, or into Debbie's eyes, and remembering to keep my face towards my mother but my eyes moving around the room, but not too much or I might end up breaking one of the first two stipulations…

Once again, I was surrounded by people asking questions, and the second or third person to approach me was my blonde. …Er, _the_ blonde. Not mine. I was still speaking to the person in front of me, but she knew that I was aware of her. She pressed up against my side, on the pretense of not having room to do anything else—there were quite a few people behind her, pressing forward to either ask a question or get to the exits. I felt a hand, so slight and so fast that I hardly noticed it, brush over the front of my pants and then slip, just for a moment, into the front pockets, leaving something behind.

I started when it happened, coughing to attempt to cover it up, and my incredulous look at the woman was lost because she was already walking away, leaving me to throb with a combination of arousal and guilt. But no—my vows meant something to me. They did.

I glanced up and saw Debbie again, eyes accusing, and it made me angry. I was the only one in this marriage whose vows meant something to them, this much I knew. I tore away from her gaze, struggling to answer questions without letting the anger in my voice show. Finally, it seemed, I had gotten through the questions and I was shuffling my papers together, my mother and Debbie and Wes waiting off to one side. I took the stack and turned to them, getting so far as to be within feet of them when I felt a hand on my arm, attempting to garner my attention.

I turned, and smiled, extending my hand to shake. "Anthony, how nice to see you… Were you here for the lecture?"

"I was. You're as eloquent as ever. Is this your family?"

Despite my anger, I was proud of my family… well, I was proud of my mother and Wes. So I beamed. "It is. Let me introduce you." I tilted my head to indicate that he should follow me the final few feet over to them, and caught Debbie's arm to turn her towards us as my mother had already seen us coming. "Dr. Anthony Jacobs, this is my wife, Debbie, my mother, Elaina, and my son, Wesley. …This is Dr. Jacobs—he wrote that paper, Mom, that I told you about a few weeks back. …Mind-blowing."

He chuckled affectionately. "You always were too kind, Gil. It's nice to meet all of you…" He seemed to be looking at Debbie, in particular, with a peculiar look in his eyes. And she seemed to be looking determinedly away. Why on earth would that be? "Perhaps this will make you uncomfortable, Mrs. Grissom, but you do look so much like a favorite student of mine." He gave an odd sort of half-smile, like it made him both happy and sad. "I have to admit, it's rather like looking at a twin…"

I titled my head, speaking when Debbie only gave him a half-smile too, like she didn't know how to respond. "How strange. Who's the student?"

He shook his head sadly. "That's the rather… strange part. She was killed in a plane crash about four months ago. …I believe it was the same one your family miraculously survived. She was flying to Vegas to interview at your lab, Gil, if you remember…"

"Sara Sidle." I said, and Debbie's head lifted up, her eyes wide. "I remember. I was quite impressed with your recommendation of her… I'm sure she would have been an asset to the lab. …You said she looked like Debbie?" That was even stranger. Two people who looked so alike on the same plane?

Debbie spoke up. "I think I must have spoken to her."

We both turned and looked at her in surprise. It was the first time she'd spoken to me since this morning. I didn't know what to say, but Dr. Jacobs did. He took a step closer. "Really? …How… how do you know?"

She swallowed, looking at the floor. I knew she didn't like to talk about the crash, but… "There was a woman who sat in our row… I had to do a double-take, when I saw her. Someone even asked us who was Wesley's mother and who was his aunt…"

I raised my eyebrows. Debbie had never told me she'd talked to someone who was going to interview with me. …Then again, we never talked about the crash. I hated the haunted look in her eyes when we did, and she found ways to avoid the topic even when I wasn't pushing it. Dr. Jacobs spoke up again. "I wonder… I'm sure you didn't have an in-depth conversation with… Sara and… I know that… that it must be hard to think about, but… Did she seem… happy?"

Debbie looked surprised, and he rushed to explain. "I just… well, as I told you, she was a favorite student of mine. Brilliant. She could have been hired in your husband's lab, even having only just graduated, and she would have been right up there with his best criminalists. I… I cared about her, a lot. I was her thesis advisor… I just… want to know that she seemed happy and… and that she didn't suffer."

He frowned, and Debbie looked emotional again. Was she on her period?—She'd never been so teary in her life except when she was pregnant with Wes… and I knew she wasn't pregnant. The doctors would have told me if she had been during the crash, and she hadn't seen anyone since then.

"I… I don't remember much, Dr. Jacobs—"

"Anthony, please."

She half-smiled. "Anthony… I… I remember the… split second in which I realized we were crashing, and I remember grabbing Wesley and tucking him between my body and the seat… and then when we… landed… when I was aware, again… she was dead. So… She probably didn't suffer." Debbie's body shook as she spoke. "I think… I think it was very fast."

His eyes searched hers, and he looked a little emotional too. "I'm sorry to've made you relive that… you're very brave, Mrs. Grissom. …Thank you." He shook his head softly. "…The similarities… they're just uncanny. …Your face is different, of course, but…" He shook his head again and turned to me, laying a hand on my arm. "I'm sorry Gil. I believe I've upset your wife. I merely meant to tell you how much I enjoyed the lecture… I'll see you tomorrow?"

I nodded, numbly. "Yeah… of course. Thank you, Anthony."

He smiled and walked away, his shoulders seeming a little slumped. I glanced at my mother, who was watching Debbie, and so I turned to her too. She was wiping tears from her eyes, pulling Wes up from where he held my mother's hand, into her arms… and then she was walking away from us, again.

I sighed and we followed them out, the corner of the piece of paper folded into my pocket pressing into my thigh with every step, a new emotion flaming up within me at every poke.

_Anger. _Step. _Guilt. _Step. _Desire. _Step. _Concern. _Step. _Anger. _Step. _Confusion. _Step. _Guilt. _Step.

…Why did I agree to this vacation again?


	35. Chapter Thirty Four

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: The chapter's a little short, but I'll try to update again tonight. My test went well, thanks for the wishes of good luck! :)

Let me know what you think!

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Chapter Thirty-Four:

I was fully prepared to spend another day in bed. It had taken everything in me not to hug Dr. Jacobs. He'd been a mentor to me… meant the world to me… but I'd had no idea that it was reciprocated. I thought I was a student out of hundreds he must advise on their capstones… and he'd seemed so sad that I was dead. I knew that he would have been one of the only genuinely sad people at my funeral…

My funeral. I shivered at the thought. How very, very morbid.

How had I let myself get caught up in this mess? I was with a man who didn't trust me and desired me only because I looked like his dead wife and even then couldn't sleep with me because of the trust issues. I was playing mother to a small child when, in truth, I wasn't his mother. What if someday he needed… I don't know, a bone marrow transplant? What if he asked me what it was like being pregnant with him, or how old he'd been when he started walking?

I had given up everything—which was, on a personal level, not much… but on a professional level… everything I'd ever worked for my entire life long—to spend my days stuck at home, wallowing in grief over the resurgence of memories that Gil's case was inflicting.

And then, my husband had bimbos in stilettos—fucking stilettos for a noon lecture on a college campus? Really?—groping him in public.

If it weren't for Wesley, I honestly think I would leave. That was a Debbie-like thing to do, kind of. I mean, minus the whole needing-a-meal-ticket-thing…

As soon as we got back to the hotel room I went to change Wesley's diaper, and when I came out, Gil had already changed out of his dress slacks and into a pair of jeans. He was sitting on the couch, the case file open in front of him. Wesley ran to him before I could stop him, and Gil scooped him up, glancing at me. We held each others' gazes briefly, and then I turned and moved into my bedroom, closing the door.

I wasn't going to get angry with him again, in part because he'd been right the last time—I was Debbie, and Debbie deserved a taste of her own medicine for once. But I couldn't pretend that I wasn't overwhelmed and I couldn't pretend that it didn't hurt when he reacted to that woman instantly while it'd taken him how long to react to me, and I'd been offering myself about as blatantly as she had been for much longer.

I flopped on the bed, thinking that I would cry myself to sleep and let the day pass me by. I could forget about all of this, if I just… Gil's slacks were on the floor. Gil's slacks that the groping bimbo had stuck something into, were on the floor, and the corner of that something was sticking out, just enough to be tempting.

I listened, for the space of a breath, to see if Gil was occupied, and it seemed that he was—he was talking to Wesley about the cartoons on TV—and then I was racing to the pants and carefully digging the folded piece of notebook paper out, noticing that it felt much thicker than I thought it ought to. I unfolded it, and something fell from between the creases. I bent to pick it up—a condom. Extra-large.

I dropped it again like it had burned me. That dirty whore! Didn't she see the wedding ring on the man's finger!

I unfolded the paper the rest of the way frantically, feeling so very, very angry.

_I know you liked what you saw. Hotel Palomar, 612. Ten o'clock. _

I wanted to scream I was so mad! I couldn't even believe it! What a… a… a… whore!

"Hello?" Gil's voice came from the living room, louder than the way he'd been speaking to Wes. It sounded like he was answering the phone.

"Where was it found?" …That could mean a lot of things, depending on who he was talking to… I bit my bottom lip, folding the dropped condom back into the note, anxious to not get caught.

"Great. When's it leave?" His voice was coming closer. I snatched up his pants and tucked it back into his front pocket.

"I'll see you tonight." I dropped the pants back to the floor as the door swung open. He glanced at me with a question in his eyes, but shrugged it away, closing his phone. "There's another body that fits my serial's MO, I'm taking a flight back tonight. You'll drive my mother and Wesley home tomorrow morning… Does that work?"

He left no room for discussion, but I argued anyway. "It's… it's still early. We can probably be on the road in an hour… I'll sleep until you get tired, and then I'll drive through the night."

He sighed in exasperation. "Debbie… I can be back in Vegas by midnight, at the scene by one, one thirty…"

I frowned. "They're going to leave the scene that long for you to go process it?"

His eyes narrowed, and I realized my mistake. I shouldn't know that holding a scene that long was rare. He cleared his throat. "They're going to process it, but I'll want to go see it."

I nodded. Apparently he wasn't going to call me on it. "We can make the trip in ten hours if we time it right to avoid traffic… ten and a half, with a stop for supper." I glanced at the watch on the wrist he had crossed skeptically across his chest. "It's roughly two o'clock… if we get on the road by three, you'll be on the scene by one thirty as well. …And then we're all… together."

He watched me for a moment, seeming to consider me, and then slumping, apparently giving in. "Fine. You'll have all of your stuff ready to be loaded in the car in a half hour? Yours and Wesley's?"

"Yes."

He sighed. "Fine. I'm gonna go fill up gas and buy some snacks for the road, since we'll be in the car a while. I'll be back in twenty minutes to pack my own stuff… You sure you can be ready so soon?"

"Yes." I assured him again. He frowned but nodded.

"Alright. I'll see you in twenty minutes…" He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank god this horrible, horrible trip was over.


	36. Chapter Thirty Five

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Okay, not super eventful, but it gives you some insight into Grissom's state of mind right now, and it sets us up for the case to unfold a little more. ...This is my first case file type story, so I'm trying hard to make it clear without giving away the ending. Yell at me if I screw up details or if what I say isn't clear. :) Thanks!!

Oh, and thank you for the reviews, as always, which make me so very happy. More, please, yes?

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Chapter Thirty-Five:

There was too much going on to process it all correctly.

I had the irritating feeling in the back of my mind that I usually got when I was looking at evidence and I knew there was something _there_ that I just couldn't put my finger on… yet.

Debbie had had her stuff ready to go and was packing up Wesley when I returned, having made the call to the university to apologize that I would have to cancel the lecture for the next day. I moved into the bedroom we'd shared the night before—though it felt like it had been a million years since then—and started packing my own suitcase.

I picked up the slacks I'd worn to the lecture that morning and immediately felt something in the pocket—something I'd forgotten when I'd felt the sudden urge to check a detail between the cases that I felt like I'd missed, but which turned out to be nothing. I tugged it out, glancing behind me at the door that was still half-open, feeling immensely guilty for even wanting to read it.

But I did. I wanted to. …Call it morbid curiosity or stroking my ego or whatever, but it felt good to be desired by a woman who would have nothing to gain by it, except me.

I unfolded the paper, feeling that there must be something inside because it was far too thick… to find a condom marked 'Xxxtra Large' on the front. …Tacky. I think I must have blushed and cringed simultaneously. I mean, it was obviously flattering that the strange blonde woman I'd never met had such a high opinion of me… but it was still rather… crude. I unwrapped the paper, glancing behind myself again, feeling guilty.

It was not, as I had assumed, something as straight-forward and honest as a name and phone number. No, it was an invitation. For tonight. In a hotel room. With a condom included. I read it twice, and then moved to the trash can in the room and dropped them both inside it, and then turned back to continue packing.

It was an easy thing to do, because no one-night stand would ever take precedence over a case… especially not this case. And it was easy not to think about it beyond that, because I didn't want to admit that I was tempted. Not only by the sex of it… if it were only that, I think I would have been rather turned off by the entire thing. No—it was about wanting to hurt the woman who was still twisting me around her little finger, playing games with me.

I wanted her to understand the pain of what she'd done to me. I wanted her to feel inadequate, because it was how I had felt for two years… It was that feeling of inadequacy that made such an offer so tempting in the first place. It's human and natural to want to be wanted.

But like I said, a moot point. I didn't have to make a decision, because we were leaving.

I packed up, loaded the car, walked through the rooms to be certain we hadn't left anything behind, and checked out. We were on the road at a quarter to three.

Debbie did exactly as she said she would, and tried to sleep while I drove. Nearing supper time, we pulled over at a McDonalds because it had a play place and I felt like he needed to run around if he was going to be stuck in a car for another seven hours. Debbie frowned at it, but said nothing, and normally I would have asked, but today I didn't. I didn't want to hear anymore from her, whether it would be old-Debbie complaining about her figure or new-Debbie about Wesley's dietary needs.

I told my mother to take Wesley in to play and get a table, and we'd meet them there… and fifteen minutes later, I was calling him down to eat. He slid into his chair, reaching for his happy meal, but Debbie stood up, abandoning her food. "Wes, hon, let's wash your hands before you eat. That play place is germy…"

Ah. There was the reason for the frown. Good to know—my wife now cared about germs.

"Gumby?"

She laughed softly and took him to the bathroom to wash, and I was confronted with my mother's eyes. I had avoided them for most of the trip, but there was no escaping them now. No Wes to talk to, no people around to discourage discussion, no Debbie to be polite and not sign in front of. She signed openly now.

"You slept in her room last night?"

I raised an eyebrow. "How did you know that?"

Her eyebrow raised in an almost identical gesture. "Midnight bathroom break. You didn't talk all day."

"I have nothing to say to her."

She hesitated. "She… isn't the same."

I nodded. "She says… the plane crash made her reevaluate her priorities."

She seemed to consider this and me at the same time. "But you don't believe her?"

I frowned. "I think it's understandable if I have trust issues."

"A plane crash is life-threatening enough to make a person change… She's different with Wes, too."

"Didn't you hate her?"

She frowned too. "I didn't hate her. I… disapproved. …But, if you insist that remaining married is the course of action you both want to pursue… and she isn't seeing anyone else anymore… Does it matter _why_ she's changed, so long as she has?"

"Yes. It matters. I… It's not who I am to invest my body but not my heart."

She smiled then. "I know that, Gilbert, I know. …But you're foolish if you believe you haven't invested your heart already."

I scowled, angry now. "So, what, you just think I should take her back, forget everything she did, and let that be good enough?"

She shook her head. "No… No, I don't think that either. I just… want to see you happy, baby."

I couldn't help but smile—my mother had called me 'baby' my whole life, and while it had bothered me as a teenager, as an adult it provoked a kind of nostalgia that was fond. Debbie returned before I could respond, and my mother's words swirled in my head despite my arguments. If she was my wife, and she was willing…

No. I knew better than anyone that I would fall for her all over again if I gave in… if she kept acting so differently… It would be over for me, and when she didn't feel death breathing on her neck anymore, she would go back to being herself and it would hurt all over again. Why would I invite torture?

We finished eating and piled back into the car, and Debbie slept again, until it was nearing ten o'clock. We switched places, and I closed my eyes, but of course, sleep would not come. I was going back and forth through a hundred different things, unable to focus clearly on any of them.

There were the serials and every detail I'd been attempting to expand to find out how they all fit together, and the new body that was waiting for me, hopefully providing a clue I didn't yet have… there was the child in the backseat who I feared would go back to being unresponsive when we returned home, the mother who seemed to be advocating radical things for strange reasons, the wife who had become a constant source of confusion and pain… my head was swirling with all of it, and I couldn't make sense of all of it.

Debbie drove us home, took my suitcase inside as well as Wesley's, and I took my own and my mother's, while she carried Wes in and placed him in his bed. He'd slept through most of the second half of the trip. I said goodbye to both women, somewhat awkwardly, and called the lab, getting a uniform to meet me at the scene—another hotel room—but there wasn't anything new to find. Graveyard had processed it, since the serial was their case, so I shouldn't be surprised, but… I just felt like we were missing something obvious. Something large and life-size standing right in front of us.

I went back to the lab—getting the run down on the girl. Alexandra Clare, 26, visiting her grandmother who lived in town. She was staying in a hotel because her grandmother lived in a nursing home. Her 90th birthday was this week.

This case was really getting under my skin.

But that was a difference… this woman had a living relative. I read through the information but eventually decided to head home and sleep—all the evidence had been collected, and none of the evidence would be finished processing at least until morning. The autopsy might not take place until the following afternoon. And I needed to be awake and aware and more level-headed to talk to Grandma Clare tomorrow.

I drove home, feeling exhausted, and curled up on the couch, fully clothed. Because my pajamas were in the bedroom, with my wife… and I knew exactly where that road led.


	37. Chapter Thirty Six

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Sorry it's so late--my muse was being finicky. And all day today, between classes, I was getting stuff together for the Valentine's party we had today for the kids at my daycare... so I was distracted. ...My age group are about eighteen months, roughly... and we frosted cookies. They got very messy. :)

Anyway, thanks for the wonderful reviews. As always, they make me happy. Let me know what you think about this chapter--it took a while to get it right.

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Chapter Thirty-Six:

The next few days passed in a blur. Gil was up before me, leaving the house as I woke up, and he came home late every night, exhausted. He would go wake Wesley up for a hug and a kiss while his mother heated up leftovers, and the three of us would sit down while he ate and talked about the case.

I knew it had to be really bothering him if he was talking about it so openly, but he wouldn't accept any comfort I offered… he wouldn't talk to me about it after he'd finished eating, he wouldn't sleep in the bed with me or even agree to let me take the couch for even a night.

The girl's grandmother hadn't been able to tell him much he didn't already know—her son had died when Alexandra was young, and her mother was abused drugs and was eventually sent to rehab… Mrs. Clare wanted to take Alexandra, but she'd lived in a nursing home even then… she'd struggled with poor health for a long time. That was about all she could say—she didn't think Alexandra knew anyone in town, the girl hadn't told her grandmother that she'd met anyone.

He'd finally gotten the files from child services for the rest of the girls, but so far they hadn't helped. One or two had multiple San Francisco addresses in which they'd lived in foster care, and one or two had lived together at one time or another… but there was not one unifying feature that could tie them all to a place and time.

By the time Thursday had rolled around, I was certain Gil had forgotten all about our standing Friday appointment with Dr. Samson, but I was wrong. The next morning he knocked on my door before I was even entirely awake, but I sat up in bed sleepily, calling that whoever it was could come in, and he did. He even sat on the edge of the bed. I blinked blearily, trying to make sense of this. He cleared his throat.

"I, uh… I don't know if you remember but… Wesley has another appointment today. I'll… be back in time to pick the two of you up."

I frowned. "I know you're busy, Gil. I can call and cancel…"

He shook his head. "No. I know that… there are going to be times, like right now, where I'm not the most present father in the world… With my job, it can't be avoided. But I'm not going to put anything above his health."

I nodded. When he put it like that…

I cared less about making a good impression on the doctor of oh-so-many questions, but I still chose Wesley's outfit carefully, simply because we'd hardly left the house since the vacation and I thought he ought to look nice for our little adventure out into the world. I found a blue polo, as bright as his eyes, and put it on with a pair of brown shorts and his race car shoes. He looked more like a little boy this time, but a very neat and clean little boy. Ten minutes before I expected Gil home I changed his diaper, wondering idly if he shouldn't start potty training soon. He'd be two in January and it was the end of November… I also realized, with some surprise, that Thanksgiving had been the day before.

We'd more or less ignored it. …Was that normal, or because of Gil's case?

I heard the door downstairs and picked Wes up, carrying him downstairs quickly to catch a perfunctory smile from Gil before we followed him outside to the car. As it had been ever since we'd left San Francisco, we didn't talk in the car. The only time we had talked had been over his late suppers, and then he'd been talking to both his mother and I. I sighed as we parked.

"If he spends the entire hour ignoring Wes again, we're finding another doctor."

Gil frowned, but didn't argue… I didn't know if that was tacit acceptance or simply an unwillingness to fight with me right now, but I let it go. When Dr. Samson greeted us, I did my best to smile and act as though I had no hard feelings from the time before, and he led us back into his office.

"Well… it's been a little while since we last met. How've you been, as a family? Any changes?

I titled my head. Wesley had been different in San Francisco… Gil spoke up, apparently thinking the same thing.

"We uh… took a vacation, this last week. And… while we were there, Wes seemed… better. He was laughing, talking, playing…"

"And how has he been since you've come home?"

Gil frowned, looking to me. I swallowed. "Quiet, again. Back to… not playing, sitting and staring…"

Dr. Samson frowned. "The last time we were here… Forgive me the frankness but… Gil, you did the majority of the talking because Debbie doesn't trust me. Why is it that you're looking to her to explain his behavior now?"

I raised my eyebrow at his remark, but it didn't seem to faze Gil. "I, uh… Well, I've been working long hours, this week, on a case. I… I haven't really seen Wesley more than a few minutes at a time since we got back from San Francisco..."

He frowned, tilting his head. "Is that common?"

Gil narrowed his eyes, showing frustration openly. "Doing what's necessary to provide for my family? Yes, actually, it's a daily occurrence."

Dr. Samson smiled. "You and your wife are more alike that I first thought. No, Gil, I meant… is it common to get caught up in a case to the extent that you don't see your child for more than a few minutes a week?"

Gil leveled a glare at the man, seeming to think he wouldn't dignify his insinuation with further comment. I, however, had never been good at controlling my temper. I scoffed. "I don't know what you're saying, but I don't like it. Gil is an amazing father and Wes could not be better cared for by any other man in the world. And if I may remind you, once again Doctor, we're here for Wesley."

He put his hands up as if to say he'd never intended to provoke such an outburst, though clearly he'd been pushing. "Alright… Maybe we should be done talking for a while. Why don't we try some play therapy?"

I scowled, but Gil, after a surprised glance at me, looked back at Dr. Samson. "Okay. What do we do?"

"Well, for this first time, I'd really just like Wesley to get to know me… feel comfortable around me. I have a play room, just through here… I assume you two will want to come with us?"

I nodded. No way was I letting Wes out of my sight—I'd been forced to see too many shrinks alone as a child. He stood then, moving around the coffee table and addressing Wesley specifically.

"Hi Wes… Do you want to come play with me?"

Wes shook his head no. Dr. Samson smiled. "What if Mommy and Daddy come too?"

He looked up between us—Gil gave him a comforting smile, and I attempted the same. Dr. Samson offered Wesley his hand, and Wes reached out hesitantly to take it, and was led through a doorway and into a play room, filled with toys. We followed behind, taking seats against the wall to let them have some space. Wes glanced behind him and, realizing we were no longer following, whined and ran back to us, flinging himself between us so that he was burying his head in the space between our shoulders. I scooped him up, laying a kiss on his forehead. Gil leaned over and rubbed his back.

"It's okay, Wes… we'll be right here. Don't you want to play with some toys?"

I glanced at the toys in questions, suddenly having a thought. "These toys… are cleaned regularly, right?" I turned to Wes, speaking in a sing-song voice to try to coax him into feeling less vulnerable. "We don't want yucky germies on us, do we?"

"Gumby?" He asked me again, and I chuckled, choosing to clarify.

"Germies. Little bugs that crawl on you and make you sick."

"Daddy bug!" He said, beaming, and I smiled softly, watching Gil's face soften too.

"Yeah, Daddy has lots of bugs, doesn't he, Wes?" Gil asked him softly and Wesley smiled. Dr. Samson held up a giant stuffed lady bug.

"Do you want to come play with this bug, Wesley?"

Wes looked between it and us and after receiving reassuring smiles again, hesitantly stood and walked back over to Dr. Samson and the lady bug in question. We watched while the two played quietly, Wes still rather hesitant to do more than hold the toys that Dr. Samson offered him, but every once and a while doing something he suggested, like wrapping a blanket around a baby or putting a person in the driver's seat of a car.

After several minutes had passed, Gil glanced at me out of the side of his eye. "…Thank you."

I turned to him in surprise, speaking just as softly, to keep our conversation private. "For what?"

"You… back there. You stood up for me. I… I know it's… it seems like nothing. But it wasn't."

I smiled, wanting so badly to be able to touch him in this moment—take his hand, grasp his arm, lay my palm to his knee of my cheek to his shoulder. "It was the truth… He shouldn't be making you feel guilty for working so hard. You… you're doing such good work and you get caught up in it, but that doesn't mean you're neglecting him. I… He doesn't know you. He doesn't know how you are about Wes."

He gave me a half-smile, almost like he didn't know what to say, and nodded slowly, saying "Thank you" again softly.

With about ten minutes left in our hour, Dr. Samson directed us back to his office and we took our seats again, Gil reaching forward and opening one of the bottles of water from the table that his receptionist had left and taking a drink. Dr. Samson settled himself, and smiled.

"I want to apologize if I offended either of you, when we were speaking before. I… thought it would be better to address this now, rather than leaving it to happen again in our next meeting. …I tend to push, especially when I feel like… like people are being intentionally evasive. I understand that you're not here for couples or family counseling, but you have to understand that I'm trying to get a picture of what is typical for your home life, because that makes us Wesley's whole world. Still—I meant no offense with my questions."

When neither of us spoke, simply nodding, he shifted in his seat as Wes reached for the bottle of water in Gil's hands. He offered it, helping him drink without spilling.

"What I would really like to talk about, in the time we have remaining, is San Francisco. I find it… rather extraordinary that he was so responsive while you were there and changed so quickly back when you returned. Was there… anything different… while you were there? I mean, in… in your personal relationship or interactions?"

I raised an eyebrow. Gil cleared his throat. "We… fought less. For the most part. We'd… come to a… tentative truce." He glanced at me nervously. Dr. Samson looked between us.

"But that changed… when you came home?"

"Gil's busy working." I said, but once again he decided to be more honest than I.

"We… started fighting… in the last two days of the trip."

"Can I ask why?"

The word 'no' was on my lips, but he beat me to it once again. "We… I don't trust her."

I cleared my throat. "This isn't about us."

Gil sighed. "No, but he's right—Wesley was different when we were being… civil…"

"I don't think that's all of it," Dr. Samson cautioned. "But it definitely makes for a more stable home life… Children can sense tension just like adults. They may not hear the fight itself, but they know things aren't right."

Gil nodded. I leaned back against the couch with my arms crossed, waiting.

"I… I understand that you don't want family or couples counseling—we've discussed this several times—but it might help to understand what Wesley is going through. I won't offer advice for your relationship where it doesn't apply to Wesley… but I'd rather be done fighting about what questions are or are not acceptable. I need a clear picture of your home life."

I raised a defiant eyebrow, not responding—because I had no interest in making peace with this man and talking about our personal life. Gil, however, seemed to be tired of fighting over questions as well. He sighed deeply.

"Debbie would like… a second chance at a real relationship. I'm finding it rather hard to trust her, due to past… indiscretions. We were getting along on the trip because… well, because Debbie isn't the same as she was, before the crash. She says it made her realize what's important in life. We were almost… intimate… and then something came up, and… and it made me realize that I still don't trust her. I might desire her again, but I don't trust her. After that, we hardly spoke."

I couldn't help it—I scoffed. "Right. That, of course, doesn't acknowledge the fact that we were fighting before that because of the blonde." Both men turned to look at me. Gil frowned.

"I told you that I looked away as soon as I realized—it was unintentional." He lifted the water bottle to his lips again, seeming unconcerned. It made me even angrier, that he was pretending to be cool and collected when he had been anything but that morning in bed with me… and after, when he was out of bed, asking me who I really was.

"Were her hand in your crotch and the condom in your pocket also unintentional?" I snapped, so sick of this damned shrink and Gil's unfathomable willingness to tell him things he had no business knowing. Gil choked on his water and Wes whimpered. I pulled him into my lap. "I'm sorry baby… Mama won't yell anymore."

Dr. Samson cleared his throat again, drawing our attention back to him. "Can you… clarify for me, what this is about?"

Gil, finally, seemed like he didn't want to share with the shrink. But I was still mad. I kept my voice calm, but I answered him. "There was a blonde in a skirt in Gil's lecture at Berkeley who felt she needed to show him that she'd forgotten to wear panties that morning. The next day, she groped him and put an invitation for sex, no-strings-attached, into his pocket. But hey, at least she wanted to use protection."

Gil groaned, getting angry now. "You know what—I didn't do anything about it, did I? I didn't go have protected-no-strings-attached-sex with the blonde without panties. You, however, could write a book about what it's like to sleep your way through every surgeon in a hospital."

It felt like I'd been slapped—but I had no come back. Debbie had done that. Gil had not. I looked down. After a very pregnant pause, Dr. Samson spoke again. "I… forgive me if I'm not following, but… you said you'd started fighting near the end of your trip?"

Gil swallowed. "We left the day of the second lecture." The doctor nodded, as if that fit with what he'd been trying to piece together in his mind.

"So… you left the day you received the invitation. You… didn't stay at the hotel with Debbie while the blonde was waiting, you… were on your way home."

Gil frowned. "There was a break in my case, yes."

He nodded, and seemed to hesitate before speaking. "…If you had been in town… if Debbie hadn't known about the note… Would you have gone?"

"I didn't go." He repeated, but I was watching him now, holding my breath.

"It was a non-issue. You couldn't go. …If you could have, what would you have done?"

There's a long moment in which I feel my heart has certainly stopped beating and I feel tears springing into my eyes. His voice is soft when it comes, and laced with something that sounds like shame. "I… don't know."

I let my eyelids fall closed, turning my face away from him, trying to hide how very much those words hurt me. After another long moment, Gil sighs. "I think our hour is up. Thank you, Dr. Samson." He stands and, after a moment, I blink the tears away furiously and stand as well, shifting Wes to rest on my hip.

We walk out, and our silence says more than our voices ever could.


	38. Chapter Thirty Seven

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Ouu, okay, let me know what you think. :) I rewrote this one a few times, which was hard, because I was also reading today. My fiance gave me a novel from yournovel .com with us as the main characters for Valentine's Day... and he made it a crime-related romance, because of my CSI obsession. :) He's so sweet. So yeah, I might be a little slow with updates until I finish the book.

Also, someone asked me how many chapters there are going to be... and I wish I could tell you, but I don't really know. I know the series of events that need to happen between now and the end, but I don't know how that'll translate into chapters, especially since I often add little things if I think of them while writing. Sorry! :(

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Chapter Thirty-Seven:

I dropped Wesley and Debbie off at home, in silence, and after some hesitation, followed them inside to eat lunch, trying to shake off the feeling of guilt and get my mind back around the case at hand… Alexandra's murder had seemed like it would be the one where we got some answers—the place this guy slipped up. But not even having a living relative to fill us in on the details from her life had proven beneficial.

But the guilt—the guilt was overwhelming. I felt guilty for being unable to say I wouldn't have gone to the blonde's hotel room for certain and I felt guilty for not seeing Wes as much as I ought to. Dr. Samson's words kept replaying in my mind—as did Debbie's, when she'd yelled at him… told him how good a father I was… told me that Dr. Samson didn't know how I was with Wes. Even though it had been a week of being rather absent…

It wasn't like Debbie to defend me, or comfort me…

For the first time since we'd come back from San Francisco, I ate with my family, spent some time playing with Wesley, and put him down for his nap. This helped with the guilt, even if it didn't make it go away entirely.

I went downstairs where my mother was watching a movie, and though I saw with her, I kept glancing around and listening, trying to determine where Debbie was… I hadn't seen her since lunch, and… and I wanted to see her. Despite the argument and the silence and my guilt-ridden confession, I wanted her around.

My mother smiled knowingly and signed to me, "She's in her bedroom. I heard water running… a bath, maybe." I nodded, deciding against denying that I had been looking for her. My mother knew me better than that—the denial would be tantamount to admitting _why_ I had been looking for her.

After another twenty minutes had passed, I left my mother to her show and trekked up the stairs. I needed to talk to her. I didn't want to—I honestly felt like it would be a lot smarter to go into work and let the whole thing blow over… but I couldn't.

I couldn't push from my mind the way she'd looked when I'd made my confession… the pain in her features, the way she turned from me, as though she couldn't stand to look at me when I'd said such a thing… the tears she blinked away. …I'm good at reading people. I know this about myself. I know that it's a big part of why I'm so good at my job and I also know that something isn't right about Debbie. I know this like I know my own name or my son's face or that science isn't a discipline but a means to understanding everything that is.

But I also knew that… that you don't show the kind of suffering I saw on her face unless you're in a real amount of pain. She wasn't faking it… and it had been in direct response to my words.

I knocked on her door, shuffling, nervous, uncertain. I didn't know why I was here, exactly, and I had no idea what I was going to say to her… but I knew I couldn't leave things the way they were. If nothing else, I had to explain that my uncertainty had not arisen because I was so taken with the brazen woman, but because I had wanted her to feel a portion of the inadequacy that had been like a close friend and lover to me for two years.

The door opened after a moment—she was wearing dark blue sweat pants that she liked to sleep in and a tank top—this was probably the least amount of clothing I'd seen her in since before the plane crash. I was briefly distracted by the skin shown—it was not her usual flaunting of skin… it wasn't meant to entice, but rather offered up an unassuming, bare innocence. Somehow, this was more enticing. I swallowed hard and forced my eyes back to her face—she didn't have any make up on and I could almost smell the soap on her skin, but her hair was dry, so she had to've been out for at least a little while.

When I didn't speak, she raised an eyebrow. I swallowed again, trying to focus myself. Debbie had never made me so tongue-tied before… I felt like I couldn't get my words out. …I took a deep breath, trying again. "I… Can we… I'm… I want to talk to you." I forced out, and she gave me a shy sort of smile… stepping back and letting me into her bedroom. She closed the door behind me, and though I had expected as much, for some reason it make me feel on edge.

…Not the bad kind of being on-edge… the way you feel on a first date, or before you ask someone to marry you, or before you… I swallowed again, ignoring the hairs on my arms which were standing on edge. I sat on the bed and then jumped up as if it had burned me. Debbie gave me a sad smile and seated herself on the end of the bed instead, elbows to her knees, watching me. I paced once or twice, and decided I just needed to say it.

"I… I'm sorry, about… with Dr. Samson, I…" I groaned, running a hand through my hair. "I'm sorry that… it hurt you… when I said that I… didn't know."

She leaned back a little so that she was sitting up straighter, her eyes quick and thoughtful, seemingly trying to understand why I'd had this turn around. Still, behind the confusion, I saw the pain of the memory being replayed in her mind. She tilted her head.

"You… don't have to be sorry. I… deserve it."

I frowned. That wasn't what I expected…and it didn't make me feel better. I still felt guilty… and I could still see the hurt in her eyes. I paced again. "I, uh… I just… you looked so hurt when… when I said it. And…" I sighed. Why was it so much harder to talk to her than it used to be? I glanced at her—she looked… beautiful. So beautiful… her eyes, especially. They transfixed me.

I sighed softly, taking a step closer to her, holding her gaze like a lifeline. "I… Why… did you look that way… when I said it?"

She frowned. "Look… what way?"

"So… hurt." She opened her mouth to respond, but somehow I knew what she was going to say. "Not… Don't… say that you've… rearranged your priorities or… or that you're trying to be a good wife and mother or that… you want a second chance. True or not… I… I want to hear something more… honest."

Her chin rose, not defiantly, but as if she was taking in my words—processing them—trying to formulate how to answer. Her voice was soft when she answered. "Because I…" She drew in a deep breath. "I want you. I… I love you. And I… It… she… I didn't want you to even want… someone else… whether you acted on it or not."

I took another step closer, feeling my heart racing. "I… Debbie…" I hate that my voice sounds vulnerable, and I hate that my feet haven't stopped moving forward and that I'm trembling with the memory of kissing her in San Francisco. I breathe in and speak in what is almost a whisper. "Don't… don't say things… that you don't mean."

She licked her lips, leaning back a little as I got closer. "…I'm not." Her eyes were sincere. I took the final step that put me standing between her legs. Her breathing hitched and she swallowed hard, looking up at me. "Gil…"

"You stood up for me… to Samson. You've… never said anything like that before. …You said I was a great father."

Her brow crinkled. "You _are_ a great father, Gil. You…" she sighed, still looking up at me, her pink little tongue slipping out to run over her lips again. "You're a great man."

I don't know what possessed me to do—I had not intended this when I came in but the pain in her eyes was honest and intense and I only wanted to ease it—hers and mine.

I kissed her.

I kissed her and I put my hands on her body and I didn't care that I didn't know what was off about her, I wanted her, and she'd meant it when she'd said she wanted me. I knew she had.

Her breath came fast against my cheek, her fingers slipped into the hair at the nape of my neck like they belonged there, her chest arched up to me, even though she knew it wouldn't reach. And I wanted it to… I wanted to feel her body pressed, solid and warm and oh-so-lovely, against mine. I wanted to touch her, taste her, relearn the size and shape and feel of her. I wanted to devour her, and this time, I was going to.

I kissed her more deeply, pressing against her, pushing her gently until she had fallen back against the bed and I could lay my upper body across hers. I was nearly shaking with want, my fingers slipping into her short locks and gripping them anyway, wanting to hold on to each part of her and keep her close. I was so afraid that she'd been the one to run this time… to stop everything.

I raised a knee to the bed, my head ending up higher than hers. She scooted up to realign us and when a second knee moved up and I kept moving, she followed suit, scooting until her head was near the other end of the large bed and I was above her, straddling her, kissing her. She moaned against me, her hands sliding over my shoulders and against my chest, tugging impatiently at the buttons. My mouth moved to her neck to kiss and nibble, and she moaned again, her eyes staying tightly closed.

"Oh… Gil… what… what about… we're… your mother… Wesley…"

I chuckled, putting my hands on her waist and inching her tank top up, enjoying how silky smooth her skin was. "My mother's deaf…" I pulled the whole thing over her head, delighting in the absence of a bra. I dipped my head to kiss along the curve of her breast—they were smaller, now, than I remembered, but I was not disappointed. I had never been a breast man or, well… a large breast man. Smaller they… they seemed more malleable… and she was so much more responsive than I was used to—Debbie had been a screamer at the end, but not half this vocal at the beginning.

She gasped, whimpered, moaned, and clutched at my shoulders as my lips found her collar bone. "…We-Wesley…"

I chuckled, running my tongue in a circle around one of her tight nipples—she moaned loudly and arched up against me, nail digging into the shirt—and I put a hand gently over her mouth, speaking in a husky whisper. "…Then you'll just have to keep it down, won't you?"

She blushed but I still felt her hips lift up to press against me as she gasped, trying to ease some of her ache. Debbie had always been a highly sexual person… she had to be going crazy after so long without… Her fingers seemed to have finally made sense of my buttons because they were quickly coming apart, my shirt falling open on either side of her. Her hands slid down my chest like they'd never had the luxury of doing so and I closed my eyes and groaned… the reverence with which she touched me was staggering. I had never felt so desired.

I felt her little hands against my belt, tugging at it impatiently and I backed up to stand and unbuckle and unbutton them. She lifted herself up on her elbows, watching me with unmistakable hunger in her eyes, and though Debbie had always been controlling in bed… she looked, in this moment, like she would do anything I told her to. And like it.

Part of it was curiosity… and a latent fantasy we'd never explored because she'd said she wouldn't enough it… and another part of it was a need to feel like this situation—this whirlwind of our relationship culminating in I-knew-not-what—was something I needed to control. It had to be mine, to reassure me… to make me feel less vulnerable. And whether she understood that or not, her eyes betrayed her willingness. I swallowed.

"Lie up by the pillows." I directed, with only the slightest ring of authority in my voice… testing. Her eyes flashed and she moved immediately, lying against the pillows and looking to me as if for further direction. Desire shot through me. "Take your pants off." I said, even more demanding this time.

She wiggled out of them, kicking them off her bare feet, lying in front of me in black boy bottom panties… her legs were up, bent at the knee, giving me a glimpse of her ass, the fabric obviously stopping before full coverage, but not a thong. It used to be the only thing Debbie wore… but this… was better, I decided, dropping my pants and moving to the end of the bed to crawl up between her legs.

I paused almost immediately, spotting a band-aid on her ankle and tilting my head in the question. Her voice came soft and breathy, like she was already nearing completion. "I… cut it shaving… My…hands, I…fine motor is… hard." I laid a kiss over the top of the band-aid, even though I knew that she would likely scoff at the gesture, but when I glanced at her eyes… they were soft. She was looking at me like it was the single more romantic thing I'd ever done.

I moved up again, stopping when my face was above hers, beyond hesitation, but still wanting to see the honesty in her eyes. It helped, and then I bent to kiss her, laying my body across hers and groaning at the sensation of my skin against hers—warm and soft and thrumming with an electricity I couldn't deny.

Her legs parted around me, a clear invitation, and I tucked my thumbs into the waist band of her underwear to wiggle them down, feeling how wet she was for me even through my boxers. She moaned at the contact and her hands moved from my chest, over my shoulders, to grip my shoulder blades tightly. "Please…" she said, all breathy longing and hesitation, something my Debbie had never known in bed.

But I liked the change… I like the Debbie who asked instead of taking, every once and a while… and in this moment, that was enough to throw my doubts out the window. I was shaking with need, slave to my impulses—I had denied her for so long, and it had been so long… If she wanted me, I was having her. I slipped out of my boxers, kicking them off my feet, and settling into the cradle of her thighs.

She swallowed hard, her eyes fluttering close and her head bent back into the pillows, waiting… leaving everything in my hands… her posture a silent request that I possess her. I pressed up against her, watching the long line of her throat as a trembling moan tumbled up and out her parted lips, her hands digging into the sheets at her side. I pushed inside her, slowly, because I knew it had been some time—and I could feel it. She was so much tighter than I remembered, but then, when Debbie and I had been sleeping together, it had been often. After four months, it ought to feel different.

Once fully pressed against her, I laid kisses over her cheeks and forehead, her nose and jaw line, letting her adjust, because the way she was squeezing me, I knew she'd need a minute. Her breathing remained heavy and after a moment she was lifting her hips beneath me, enticing movement, telling me that she was ready… I put my weight on my forearms on either side of her head and looked into her eyes—needing the reassurance again. They showed me nothing but absolute love, absolute desire, absolute devotion.

I pulled back and pushed into her, not hard, but with some amount of force. She let out a moan that I quickly stifled with my lips, because Wesley was just down the hall and it would be rather anticlimactic if we woke him up. …It's not like I could go ask my mother to take him while I finished fucking my wife. I rocked against her again, feeling fire shoot through me at the delicious friction—her whole body felt different beneath mine. Debbie had never been fat, but with all the weight she'd lost, she almost had a different shape… a different dimension to her curves… long and lean, wrapping around me like a warm blanket.

I wanted to take it slow… I wanted the experience to be everything our first time back together ought to be… but I didn't feel like we were back together, in the truest sense… I felt like we were having sex, because I finally believed that she desired me as a man… but everything else was still in the air. Unresolved. Oh, god, who could think about those things when such heat… such tightness…such excruciatingly amazing sensations were rippling through my body?

I moved faster, rocking against her in abandon, realizing perhaps a moment too late that I couldn't stop myself… I was teetering on the edge and we'd only just started. I didn't want to go before her but—She let out a high-pitched noise, like a swooning squeal, her entire body contracting around mine, and I was absolutely lost as wave after wave ripped through me, leaving me raw with the pure intensity of the pleasure.

It was several minutes before I could catch my breath… lift my body from hers, slide out, and lay beside her, panting. She curled up to me, obviously remembering that I liked to cuddle after sex, and while my first instinct was to tell her not to bother when I knew she didn't want to… my second thought was that she looked like it was exactly what she wanted. I wrapped my arms around her, thinking I might just say screw the lab and let myself fall asleep until supper time. I could play with Wes again, give him his bath, tuck him in…

I sighed against her neck, my eyelids fluttering closed. My phone rang in my pants, which were presently on the floor. I ignored it the first time, and the second… but when it rang a third time, immediately after the second had ended, I groaned, standing and stumbling over to pick it up on the last ring.

"Grissom." I said, with no little amount of annoyance. It was Brass—his chuckle gave him away.

"Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, Gil, but… Alexandra Clare's grandmother's been calling the lab, trying to get a hold of you. Says she found some things in her basement, but she doesn't know how much they'll help…"

I hesitated, glancing at Debbie and then back again. Her eyes were closed, but I could tell from the tension in muscles that should otherwise be limp that she was listening. "Give me twenty minutes and I'll be there… is she bringing the stuff to the lab?"

"She said she would, yes, but only for you. You seem to've made quite the impression. I'll give her a call, let her know you're going to meet her there…"

"Thanks Jim." I hung up and her eyes opened as I moved to pull clean underwear from my closet and dress in clean, unwrinkled clothing.

"A break in the case?"

"I hope so." I responded, uncertain how to interact with her just now. But she gave me the pass, closing her eyes and remaining silent so that I could pretend I thought she'd fallen asleep if I wanted to, even though we both knew she was still awake. I finished dressing quickly and then moved to the door, glancing back at her, searching for some parting comment that could do justice both to what we'd just shared but also to the predicament of our relationship, thus far still very unresolved.

Words failed me, however, and after a moment I simply slipped out, closing the door behind me and leaving her in peace.


	39. Chapter Thirty Eight

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Sorry for the delay. I've been reading my personalized smut novel, writing other things, watching House online (this is the way my CSI obsession started... hmm...), and lamenting the lack of House/CSI crossovers on this site. :)

However, I have now found two new websites that have CSI episodes due to this, so hopefully I'll be able to update Destiny again soon! -crosses fingers-

Anyway, as always, thanks for the reviews. They make my day. Jayjay, I'm so very sorry for your hair. But I think this chapter will make up for the brief hiatus... Dun Dun Dun!

(...that was scary music, if you couldn't tell...)

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Chapter Thirty-Eight:

The drive to the lab gave me enough time to refocus my mind. I put the encounter with Debbie into the back on my mind, not allowing myself to be concerned with what it meant or how I'd left things just yet. Later, I would have time to worry and sort through it. Later.

Right now, I needed to meet with Alexandra's grandmother to see what she had for us.

When I arrived at the lab, Brass and Mrs. Clare were already in an interrogation room, a large box on the table between them. I knocked before entering, despite the silence therein.

"Mrs. Clare, it's nice to see you again. You say you might have some information for us?"

Her voice was soft and raspy—I had to lean forward to hear her clearly. "Ah, Mr. Grissom. You look happier than the last time I saw you… Does that mean you have some leads?"

I narrowed my eyebrows, wondering why I would look hap… Oh. I cleared my throat. "Nothing promising. I was hoping you might turn my luck around…"

She laughed, seeming slightly lonely for human contact. From the sound of things, Alexandra had been the only person she'd had in her life. I felt a pang of remorse for the woman and sat myself down in an open chair, between her wheelchair and Jim's chair.

"Well—I might have been wrong, of course, but I gathered from your questions earlier in the week that you thought the time Alex spent in foster care was… significant to the case. I had the nurses take me down to my storage space, in the basement…" I raised an eyebrow—to have lived in a nursing home that nice for that long… the woman must be rather wealthy. Had I looked into the socio-economic statuses of my victims' families? Their real families?

I made a mental note as she continued, "And I found this…" She patted the box. "Everything my Alex took with her when she turned eighteen and left—once she got her own apartment, she asked me to store it for her. When I moved to this nursing home in Las Vegas, I did some reorganizing… you know how moving is. So there should also be some home movies in there. They never let me take pictures of the other kids when I was able to visit Alex, but I threw a birthday party for her every year I lived in San Francisco… at a park. I didn't have a house to have it in. And I recorded her blowing out her candles and opening her presents… maybe that will help."

I nodded, slowly, taking this all in. I had a feeling that the person we were looking for had either worked in social services when all these girls were in foster care, or had been in foster care themselves. Maybe the videos would help.

"Thank you, Mrs. Clare. This has been very helpful… I hope this will help us bring your granddaughter's killer to justice."

"Pope Paul VI said 'If you want peace, work for justice.' …But I don't think justice will give me peace, Dr. Grissom."

I swallowed, nodding, the woman reminding me inescapably of my mother. Whereas I could quote great scholars, scientists, philosophers, and writers… she quoted the popes and the bible and our priest. "I understand that… nothing really makes up for losing a loved one. …But justice is the best that I can attempt to offer you, Mrs. Clare."

The smile she gave me spoke of infinite sadness. "I know, Dr. Grissom. I know."

She pushed on the lever to guide her wheelchair backwards, maneuvered herself to face the door, and I stood, holding it open for her. A nurse was waiting outside, in the hallway… and together, they left. Leaving me with a box that quite possibly contained nothing… but might also hold everything. I pulled gloves out of the kit I had never stopped stocking even when I stopped working cases on a regular basis and carried the box with me as I signed it in as evidence and brought it to a layout room.

Sure, I should wait for the graveyard shift, but realistically, if it were nothing, it would be hours of wasted time. And if it was something, it still might take me hours to find it—by then, they'd be here anyway. I opened the box slowly, expecting to find piles of clothes and useless, teenage items… I figured anything probative would be a needle in a haystack. But no—no clothing, no stuffed animals, no old homework folders.

There were five VHS tapes, a stack of notebooks that looked as if they'd been used for journals, a small wooden box that might have been a jewelry box, and a few framed pictures. I took the pictures out first—they were clearly of a very young Alexandra, with her parents, with her grandmother, with a dog… I sighed. Chances were that there was nothing to find, but I processed them anyway. A few smudges partials that would come back as belonging to Alexandra or her grandmother, but I sent them anyway.

The box came next, and I wasn't wrong—jewelry… very teenager-in-the-eighties jewelry. No fingerprints, but the surface was rough… I would have been surprised if I'd found anything on it. I swabbed it on the off chance that there might be epithelials in the grooves of the wood, and sent that away as well, not expecting anything.

The videos I would have to watch—that could be hours worth—I opened a notebook instead. They were journals—I spent the next several hours reading through them, taking note of every name, every address, every significant event… and marking the pages in which she'd described her birthdays, because her grandmother had told me that that was what was on the tapes. And in the last notebook, I saw something that piqued my interest.

Alexandra had written that Sara Sidle had been at her 9th birthday party, along with all the kids who lived in the home she'd just moved out of and the one she'd just moved into.

Before I knew what I was doing, I had snatched the tapes and the notebook and I was rushing to the AV lab. This woman had come up far too often in the past few weeks for it to be coincidence. It was just too strange—an old colleague and friend had written me personally, rather than write a recommendation letter for Sara to submit with her application, to tell me how good she was. She'd gotten an interview, and sat beside my wife and child on the plane to Vegas, that had crashed and killed her. She'd looked so similar to Debbie that a woman beside them had thought they were sisters… and the professor who'd obviously cared about her very deeply had thought Debbie looked like her. And now—she was in my case. She was a foster child.

…If she hadn't died in the plane crash, would my serial have killed her? Would I have been investigating her death, wondering at how good she would have been? Feeling guilty for calling her here when it had led to such horrors? Because whoever this guy was, he was keeping track of these women who lived far away, and when they were in town—even just for a night—he found them.

_Why? _What did it mean? What was he getting at?

I played the tape that said it was her 9th birthday, fast forwarded until I found it, and then looked for a child who looked like Debbie. And I found her. Her face was rather distinct—if I hadn't been looking for a doppelganger, I don't think it would have occurred to me how similar they were. I couldn't see the child close-up, but the differences and the similarities were still striking. They had similar face-shapes, cheek bones, foreheads… but the little girl had a gap between her front teeth and a withdrawn, anxious sort of look about her.

_She was beautiful_, I realized, with some amount of surprise. Sure, she looked haunted… and I couldn't see her close enough even to see her eyes… but she was a pretty little girl, and I wished I could make her look… happier. Less haunted.

…I felt my inexplicably sad that Sara Sidle had died in the plane crash and that she was not in the lab with me now, looking through video. Hell, maybe she'd have some insight we didn't… maybe she'd know someone who connected all these girls.

My eyes got wide as it hit me. Maybe she connected all these girls. Or maybe there was something in her file that would tell me what did. I called Jim and had him contact social services for Sara Sidle's records. It would be a harder argument to make—she wasn't _really_ part of the case—but she was also dead. I hoped, between those two realities, we'd come out ahead.

Sara Sidle was the key—don't ask me how I knew such a thing—but I just _felt_ that if I was going to discover the truth and solve the case… it would be because of her.


	40. Chapter Thirty Nine

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Thank you all, once again, for the reviews. I hope this pleases. :)

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Chapter Thirty-Nine:

It wasn't just sex.

Believe me, I know the difference—I was expecting just sex. Because I know the way he thinks of Debbie—and consequently, me—and because I know that a good part of it is that he's been without for two years and he's not used to the only woman he'll let himself touch offering herself up. But it wasn't—I mean, I don't know that I'd call it lovemaking either.

It was something in between.

Something frantic and needful, lustful but connecting, and full of a gentleness I hadn't expected. He'd almost gone without me—it was the realization that he was about to come and that I had done that that sent me over. But I wouldn't have cared. I mean… I would have been frustrated as hell, but I was more concerned with the connection. The intimacy of the act. And even if it couldn't be described as the moment when two people became but one person, it was intimate. He couldn't deny it, and I wouldn't.

And when it was over, he'd tugged me closer, his breathing going from rapid to calm to deep. He'd almost fallen asleep, naked, with me in his arms. But of course, the lab called… and it was the middle of the afternoon. It made me sad to see him go, but I couldn't bring myself to resent it. I missed him… wished that he'd fallen asleep or left his phone downstairs or told them to figure it out themselves, but then—I loved the man who was devoted to his lab and his justice. If he had stayed with me, he wouldn't have been Gil. And Gil was what I wanted.

This thought sent a pang of guilt through me—I wasn't Debbie, and I had allowed him to believe it for my own selfish gain. I mean, sure, I'd reasoned that he wasn't losing anything in the bargain—but the man had a right to make decisions about his own life. This logical, moral reasoning, of course, is counterbalanced by the fact that he's admitted that it's the changes he sees in Debbie that have made him want me. It's me—not her—that he wants.

I allowed myself to lie in a sort of half-wakefulness for an hour or so after he left… and then I forced myself to get up and dressed. I put on the clothes he'd taken off me, immensely grateful for the actual cut which had been my lifesaver. It was just a nick, but it bled a lot, so I put a band aid over it—and it was close enough to my tattoo that I figured, hell, could it hurt to cover both? I considered showering again—but I liked that his scent lingered on me. I would catch a whiff of it as I moved and then I would see him, hovering above me, and feel him, deep inside me, and it brought me a contentment I hadn't known since I'd entered this crazy scenario.

Wes was already awake, and I spent the afternoon with him, reading books and trying to coax him into anything more involved than peek-a-boo. He sang a few songs with me, and then laid his head in my lap and sucked his thumb.

We ate without Gil, as usual, but when eight and eight thirty passed without his presence or a phone call, I worried. Wes was already in bed so I had nothing to do to occupy myself. I had told Elaina that he'd had a break in the case, and at 9:30 she said she was going to bed—that if she knew her son, he'd be at the lab all night. I waited fifteen minutes, before making up my mind. I looked up directions to the lab online, memorizing them, packed up leftovers from supper in a Tupperware and even scooped some ice cream for him into a smaller Tupperware, bagged them, and headed out to the car.

Maybe it was overkill, but I couldn't help it. I was worried and I wanted to see him and I wanted… I wanted him home. I didn't resent his need to be at the lab, I just wished that there hadn't been a break… or that the case had been solved and he could go back to working nine to five with lunch breaks at home with me. The lab was rather easy to find and I felt self-conscious going inside, hoping that I wouldn't be expected to know people. Although, Debbie had been such a bitch that I'm sure it would be perfectly in character to not remember them.

Inside I walked down a long hallway to find myself at a wide, rounded desk with glassed-walled labs behind it. I couldn't see Gil anywhere, but I knew better than to wander in to try and find him. I went up the desk. "Hi. I'm looking for Gil Grissom."

The woman, who smiled very kindly at me, told me she'd let him know he had a visitor. I didn't see any recognition in her eyes, so I smiled and thanked her and went to sit down. Ten minutes passed, and he didn't come. I went up, asking her to page him again, when a young man strolled out of the lab area, his light brown hair spiked up dramatically, his white lab coat swirling behind him, almost hiding the Hawaiian shirt underneath it. He beamed when he saw me.

"Hey, Mrs. Griss." The way he said it, it almost rhymed. He glanced between me and the woman at the desk. "He's totally absorbed in his case. He probably doesn't even remember you paging him at this point. I'll take you back…"

He and the woman exchanged a nod, and so I smiled and nodded too, following him through the glass hallway. This would be rather dangerous, if there were ever an explosion in the lab… The young lab-coated man turned to me again, a strange look in his eyes. It worried me, but he smiled all the same. "You look good. I mean, you know, for having been in a plane crash."

I smiled more broadly, despite myself. He had a certain charm that I couldn't place. I knew, without a doubt, that had I come to work here as a CSI, I would have been friends with this man. "Hey, whatever it takes to get a face lift." I quipped and his grin made me feel good. Not the way Gil's boyish grin made me feel—this was a shallower kind of happy, but it was real all the same.

He laughed after a moment. "I, uh… I'm Greg, by the way. I mean, I know we've met but… it was only the once and I'm sure you meet tons of people Grissom works with."

I just smiled at him, glad for the gratuitous information but uncertain how else to answer. …Was it normal for him to be called Grissom? Not Gil? I wondered if I'd screwed up, but it was certainly too late to change back now. Greg stopped abruptly, outside a dark lab. There was a screen flickering inside. "There you are. He's been in there all night…" A beeper in the man's pocket went off. He glanced at it. "Ah, and duty calls. Listen, I'm not supposed to leave visitors unattended… so make sure Griss walks you out, or I'll be in trouble. Okay?"

I nodded, swallowing. "Okay…" He grinned.

"Great. See you later!" And he strolled off. I stepped closer to the lab that was darkened—Gil had large headphones on his ears and his eyes were fixed on the screen. I moved through the doorway, and nearly dropped the bag of food. On the screen, ten feet tall, was a ten year old me. He kept rewinding and watching the same short clip over and over—just of me. Not Debbie, but little Sara Sidle at a foster care birthday party for a girl who'd moved out of my foster home the week I moved in.

I swallowed—she must be Alexandra. …And Gil… was watching me. Had he figured it out? Discovered me? Was that why he'd stayed here so late? Should I just hurry out, before he could realize I was there and turn and yell at me for my deception?

But at that moment he did turn, and though he seemed startled to see me, a reluctant smile creeped over his lips as he paused the video and pulled the headphones from his head.

"Debbie… I… I'm sorry I didn't call, I know it's late. Uh…" He swallowed. "I… I'm probably gonna be here pretty late."

I nodded, smiling despite myself. "I know… I… assumed as much." I held up my bag in a would-be-casual way. "I figured you still needed to eat though…"

His eyes softened. "Debbie... You… you didn't have to…"

"I know." I said, not wanting him to feel pressured or guilty. "I just… knew there was a break in the case and that… you'd be involved for a while."

He gave me a half-smile. "Thank you."

I passed the bag to him and then glanced up at the screen, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "Is, uh… Is that Alexandra?"

He glanced behind him and then glanced back at me, looking a little sheepish. "No. …No, it's… Sara Sidle."

I swallowed. "The… the woman that I… look like?"

He nodded, once again distracted and distraught—because he was giving me details. Rare. "She, uh… she was a foster child as well. Or, at least, Alexandra's diaries and this video would suggest as much. …I'm having her file sent. Maybe it'll help, I dunno… it's kind of a shot in the dark at this point."

I nodded, but my knees felt weak. He would be reading my file—the list of horrors from my past laid out for him to see… and he had no idea that it was me. He sighed, when I didn't respond. "She was a beautiful little girl, don't you think?"

I swallowed again, his words bringing tears to my eyes. I blinked them back while he glanced at the screen, trying to be discreet. "…I don't know. Looks kind of…scrawny. Sad."

He rolled his eyes at me, like my comments irritated him. "She looks like you, Debbie. If she's scrawny, so were you." Sara, I wanted to correct, not for the first time. She looks like me because she is me. I looked down.

"I'm sorry. I know… that wasn't… nice. I just… it hurts to look at." The words were more honest than I intended, but he interpreted them through Debbie's eyes, not Sara's, and so it was nothing. He nodded, and I nodded, and he stood, intending to walk me out.

"How did you get back here, anyway?"

I half-smiled. "One of your… Greg. Greg walked me back."

"Oh." He frowned. "And he left you?"

"Outside the room you were in…" I defended. "He was nice."

A deeper frown and an eyebrow raise. "...Okay. Listen… you don't need to… wait up, tonight. I… I'm probably going to be a while."

I felt the tears peek out again, but I restrained them. "Okay. …Good luck… with the case."

He nodded and there was an awkward moment, at our parting… Did we hug, kiss, shake hands? How much contact was too much when hours before we'd been entwined?

He kept his hands at his side, but laid an obligatory sort of kiss to my cheek. The kind men gave female aquaintences at cocktail parties.

"I'll see you later. Thank you… for the food."

"You're welcome."

He turned and headed back to his lab… and I walked out slowly, passing people on my way.

A rather tall man with his shirt unbuttoned half-way down his chest and green eyes that belied a sensitivity and a kindred spirit nodded at me, like he knew me, so I offered a smile back. A woman who was too beautiful for her own good gave me a hair toss and let her eyes slide past me, letting me know that we definitely knew one another, and that she had a few choice thoughts about me. Beside her was a handsome man with a heavy brow line, clad in cowboy boots. His smile was as easy-going as Greg's had been, and I smiled back, thinking that he belonged in an old western, even if his boots were the only thing remotely 'cowboy' about him. It just seemed like where he belonged.

And then I was at the car, driving to a home that I didn't belong in, kissing a son I hadn't given birth to, and crawling into a bed that wasn't mine… alone.


	41. Chapter Forty

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Sorry this is so short. :) I really wanted to have some of the other characters have a say...

Jelly--I have to tell you how smart you are. You're a mind-reader... kind of. It's not Warrick.

For those who asked about how many chapters are in this, I have no idea. I write it as I go... I have the general outline of events written out, but... that's it. Although I can tell you that within a week (story-wise), maybe a week and a day or so, some big things will be happening. :) ...hope that makes up for not knowing about the chapters, and the short update.

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Chapter Forty:

"I don't man… she just seemed… nicer. Like—she used to give me goose bumps, like the creepy crawly feeling, you know? _Now_, she gives me goose bumps… but they're… hot."

Nick laughed at the young lab tech. "She gave you hot goose bumps?" His voice was skeptical… teasing. Greg grinned.

"No—she was hot… thus giving me goose bumps."

Nick rolled his eyes. "She's always been hot. Doesn't mean she wasn't a bi—"

"Ding-Dong, the witch is dead." Greg declared. "I swear, she's Glinda now!"

Warrick chuckled. "I wouldn't let Grissom hear you say that."

Catherine gave a hair toss and a disparaging look. "Gil wouldn't care—when's the last time you heard him talk about her at all, much less positively? Just because they're still legally married doesn't mean the marriage isn't over."

Greg grinned. "So she's available then." Nick smacked the back of his head, admonishing him the joke of bad taste, but Warrick shook his head.

"Word around the lab is that Debbie's always been 'available,' married or no. If I had any proof, other than gossip, I'd have told Grissom myself."

All eyes turned to him and Catherine scoffed. She clearly had heard the same thing, but she wasn't going to indulge the conversation, probably because she was most likely of anyone to know if such a thing were true or not. But after a moment, Greg couldn't contain himself.

"With who?" Nick reached a hand up to smack him again but Greg ducked. "Hey! I'm not asking because I'm interested. Hot or not, she's my boss's wife. …I'm just… curious."

Warrick shook his head. "Like I said, if I knew more, I would have told the man himself. Just gossip… and the Debbie I knew… I wouldn't doubt it."

Greg shook his head, even as I walked into the break room, bag of food in hand. "Not anymore." He said, under his breath, assuming that I hadn't heard the entire conversation. They quickly got coffee, made excuses, and headed off to work on their respective cases… leaving me alone again, with their words filling the air around me.

If Greg, who had met Debbie face to face only once, and only seen her a handful of times, had noticed a difference… then there was one. An obvious one. I wasn't crazy. The question—which I had asked myself again and again—was whether it was really from the plane crash. Could Greg's subconscious response of 'creepy crawlies' change simply because her priorities had?

…The other talk troubled me less. I mean, of course it hurt to be reminded of her infidelity, especially the night after I'd given in and slept with her again. But it was no surprise to me. What was troubling was that it was lab gossip. Why and how had the lab become aware of it? Simply from knowing paramedics who knew doctors at Desert Palm? That was possible, but not entirely probable.

My gut twisted and I glanced at the bag I'd set on the table. Debbie hadn't done anything this sweet since we were first married. And it certainly had never interfered with her beauty sleep.

I sighed, pulling out the Tupperware and sticking it in the microwave and then opening the smaller one, eating my ice cream first. It was melting anyway… It really had been a nice gesture.

And once again, Debbie had looked so… vulnerable. She had stood there, in the AV lab, asking questions about my work. Her posture had not been normal, for when she was in the lab—like she believed she owned the place, because she was Mrs. Lab Director. And she hadn't looked self-assured, like I would have expected after I'd given in to her. Not the all-powerful sex goddess who'd kept restraints tied to the mattress and tucked underneath… but a woman who was nervous what the fall out would be after she'd slept with a man.

I sighed, closing the empty Tupperware and replacing it in the bag, pulling out Alexandra's notebook and searching for Sara Sidle's name again, but I didn't find it. I finished eating, and moved through the stack of teenage daydreams and struggles far more terrible than a teenager should have to endure, and found nothing. They'd had one encounter, as far as I could tell… but I just knew she was involved.

I dialed Brass, yawning, glancing at the clock. It was going on one thirty, and I'd been at the lab since seven thirty, with the exception of the appointment with Dr. Samson and the subsequent… events… with Debbie. I was exhausted, and I could hardly think straight anymore.

"What can I do for you, Gil?" He answered without preamble.

"Did you talk to child services?"

"About the Sidle girl? Yeah… they said they'd get back to us by Monday whether they're releasing her records to us… I also left a message with the San Francisco Crime Lab—her application said she'd worked there as a lab tech while she was getting her masters. I don't know if they'll have any information, but I figured it was worth a shot."

I nod, sighing, feeling extreme fatigue starting to take its toll. "Okay… I'm gonna head home. Call me if you hear anything… I think I'm gonna take a weekend off. After this week, Wes needs me home and… I need some time."

I could almost see him nodding. "I'll let you know."

I drove home, in a stupor, dropped the Tupperware in the kitchen, and moved upstairs. I went to Wesley's room, kissed his brow, and then stopped outside Debbie's bedroom door, glancing between it and the couch down the hall in the office. …But I was exhausted—much too exhausted to worry about tomorrow. I went into Debbie's room… my room, once upon a time… my room, if I wanted it, again… I stripped down to boxers, and curled up beside her.

She rolled over in her sleep, as if aware that I was there, and put her head on my shoulder, even as my eyes were flickering closed. I wrapped an arm around her, turned my head to breathe in the scent of her hair, and drifted off.


	42. Chapter Forty One

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Some fluffy smut before bed. :) We need a little before... well, everything else. Hehe.

As always, thanks for the reviews and enjoy!

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Chapter Forty-One:

I woke up with my head on his chest, his arms around me, his scent in my nose. I breathed deeply, fully intending to slip back into sleep, keeping him close to me for as long as possible. But then he stirred, and I could feel him looking down at me, and I knew he knew I'd woken up. I let my eyes flicker open, turning my head up to see his bright blue eyes—the ones that had left me breathless since the first time I'd seen them—and smiled. Who could not smile, waking up to that?

And he did too. He smiled and tightened the arm he had around me, and I was in heaven.

"Hi." His voice was soft and deep with sleep and I felt the warmth of it to my toes.

"Hi," I whispered back, curling closer to him. There was a brief moment in which we simply sat in silence, and then I felt his head turn back to me.

"Debbie, I… Yesterday…"

He seemed to not know how to finish his sentence, and I felt rather confident, having woken to the man in my bed again. "…Was amazing," I supplied and his worried countenance turned into a sly smile not entirely absent some amount of male pride. I felt myself blushing, and I felt his fingertips on the reddened cheeks.

"…I'm scared to let myself believe." He admitted, letting his eyes slide closed, slowly, as if he couldn't bear to see the proof that he shouldn't believe. I frowned, putting each of my palms to his cheeks.

"Gil… look at me." He opened his eyes, a vulnerable turning down of his mouth making me want to kiss it all away. "Don't be scared. …I love you." I drew in a deep breath, seeing the uncertainty in his gaze. "I'm not saying it because you're my husband… or because I think I have to. I mean it with every fiber of my being, Gil. I am…so…in love with you."

The blue in his eyes wavered, twisting like he was trying to make himself not believe me. He closed his eyes tightly. "I… can't say it back, Debbie."

I nodded. "I know." I tried to keep the sadness from my voice, but I'm certain I failed. Still, he leaned in and pecked my lips softly, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, and suggested we get up for the day… he was taking the weekend for himself, barring anything huge coming up at the lab.

He got up, went to the bathroom, and came out while I was dressing… at first he seemed apologetic, like he thought he ought to go back and wait for me to change… but when I gave him a soft smile, he returned it, venturing closer and letting his fingertips graze over my bare arms. I shivered, and he smiled and went to his own closet to change, and I was overcome with the casual intimacy of such a moment… the light caress as we dressed for the day together. It nearly brought tears to my eyes.

Wes woke up before he'd finished dressing, so I went to get him, smiling at his mother as she opened her own bedroom door, ceding to me the responsibility of getting Wes up and ready for the day. I didn't miss that she was still in the doorway when Gil stepped out of our bedroom as well—they signed to each other, and so far I didn't know nearly enough to understand them. They moved so fluidly and quickly…

But if the woman still didn't like me, there wasn't much I could do about it. He hadn't divorced me when he hated me, so I figured it couldn't be worse now. I changed Wesley, dressed him, and took him downstairs where Gil was cooking. His mother had done all the cooking, thus far, but he looked perfectly at home in the kitchen. He had a hand towel hung over a shoulder and cinnamon on his nose, his glasses sliding down as he stirred eggs and milk and dipped bread in for French toast.

And for some reason, even though luck had not been on our side so far, nothing came up at the lab. We spent the day playing with Wes, and he played again… perhaps not as much as in San Francisco, but more than what had become normal. When he and Elaina took their afternoon nap, Gil and I settled onto the couch and watched a movie—Casablanca—and Gil knew Humphrey Bogart's lines word for word. He didn't say them out loud, but mouthed them in time with the actor. I watched them form lines that had become so much a part of pop culture that people used them without any idea where they'd come from…

And I watched his perfect lips form the timeless phrase, "Here's looking at you, kid." before glancing at me out of the side of his eyes.

That night, we went to bed together and though he didn't wrap his arms around me, I curled up to him, wanting the closeness and warmth. I wanted so much more than that too, but I knew better than to push him. After what Debbie had done to him, he needed to feel like he had some control over what was happening between us. He was a man of order and logic. I understood him because, in a lot of ways, my brain worked exactly the same way.

He wanted to make love to me. I know it's cliché, but you really can tell exactly how a person feels by the way they kiss you. We were lying together, too involved in the others' proximity to be as close to sleep yet as we ought to be, but getting there, slowly but surely… and he turned to me, cupped my face with his hand, and stared deeply into my eyes for a long moment. Whatever he saw satisfied him, because then he kissed me and my body came alive. It was over too soon, leaving me breathless with the passion that had been infused into such a brief encounter.

He held my heavy-lidded gaze for another long moment, and then he settled back into the pillows.

The next morning, messy hair and morning breath and all, he turned to me as soon as I woke up, rolled over on top of me, and pressed his hips against me, as if I needed clarification of his intentions. I felt my eyes go from sleepy to needful in a matter of moments, and the hunger in his own was gentler than the raw need that had hidden behind his irises the last time. I knew from the moment our lips connected that this would not be fucking… it would not be something in between… we were about to make love.

My whole body trembled with the reality of it, longing for it with all that I was. His large hands were soft—slightly calloused from the occasional field work and his fingers from too much paperwork—but they were still gentle. They slowly undressed me while long, lazy kisses were exchanged and his mouth discovered my neck. Shivers ran up and down my spine as a man I had loved when he was only a disembodied voice deliberately put his hands on me, with no hesitation about what he wanted.

He was not driven by two years' unfulfilled lust or some sort of frantic confusion caused by the changes in his wife… it was more basic, primal, honest… slow, but still instinctual.

My shirt was removed without pageantry, my pants following shortly after, hands and mouth devouring me, teaching me what passion was, and lifting me to heights I'd never reached before. His fingers on me and inside me were earth-shattering, life-changing, cliché-writing and when he moved his face down to assist them I thought I would pass out from sheet anticipation. He teased me, at first, flicking his tongue here and there, taunting my clitoris with contact and then moving away, until I was positively shaking beneath him, and I could feel the smile on his lips from the way his breath puffed out against me, making me want.

My hands in his hair, nails digging into his scalp, proved to be what he was waiting for—either that, or enough to convince him to take pity on me. He swiped his tongue across the swollen little nub and when I arched up against him, helpless under his administrations, his free hand caught my waist, holding me up, his fingers resuming a slow, torturous pace within me. He sucked me between his lips, and without any more speed or pressure I was catapulting over the edge, seeing colors flash before my eyes.

He moved back up my body as my breathing returned to normal, kissing along my jaw line and over my neck. When my eyes fluttered open again, he was on top of me. The slightest of movements brought his erection up to my entrance and my hands were slithering up from the sheets to wrap around his shoulders and into the curls at the base of his neck. I wanted him, in every way that one human being can want another, and when he pushed inside me, there was never a more exquisite moment in my life.

He might not have been able to say it back, but his body did his talking for him. The ending was, as you would expect, explosive… cataclysmic, really… but that was so much less important than the act of coming together. ...That morning, we came together.


	43. Chapter Forty Two

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Sorry it's so late--I had to write a paper between classes today. Lord Tennyson's 'The Lady of Shalott.' :)

Hope you enjoy. ...Tell me what you think's going on in his head, here.

Also, any updates tomorrow won't be until late (Central time, USA) because it's my future father-in-law's birthday party day.

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Chapter Forty-Two:

Monday morning I received a phone call from California's Child Services—they were faxing me Sara Sidle's information. And after a long weekend off that I refused to let myself analyze in depth and therefore upset and confuse myself, I was energized and excited to follow up on the newest lead. Her file was rather thicker than the others—and it was absent pictures. I paged through it absently, at first, to get a feel for why there was so much more kept there. She'd seen psychologists from the time she entered foster homes to the time she left them. The doctors changed, but it seemed like their methods didn't—they all had her keep a journal, and photocopied pages of those journal entries were enclosed in her file.

I set the journal entries aside, in order, along with a myriad of psych evaluations, and then turned back to the front of the file, detailing her basic information. She'd been born in 1971, meaning she'd be… 26 or 27 now. She'd grown up in a home riddled with domestic violence, and her mother had finally had enough and killed her father. There were no overt signs of sexual abuse in Sara, although her mother claimed that it had occurred, just not recently. Her older brother was seventeen and became legally emancipated after only a month in foster care. The first case worker Sara had had wrote that her brother wrote her letters. The others made no such notation, and I wondered if they simply didn't find it important enough to write about or if he had stopped writing.

She had left foster care when she was sixteen, having been accepted to Harvard on a full ride and legally emancipating herself from the state. I got up, digging through a file cabinet to find her application—she had a bachelor's degree in physics from Harvard, and had gone on to grad school at Berkeley, for forensics. So she'd come out of a poverty stricken, abusive home, battled through foster care with a mother in and out of mental facilities and prisons, and a brother who may or may not have dropped out of contact with her… and she'd gone to Harvard, and Berkeley…

If her interview had gone well, I was almost certain I would have hired her. Her qualifications put her in the top five—we'd been planning to interview more than five, but I had my list of those who I hoped had a good interview. The letter from her teacher and an old friend of mine… probably would have tipped the scale if someone else had tied with her. Chances were, she would have been working at the number two crime lab in the country, and she would have risen out of nothing…

I found myself overeager to read her journals… to get inside the head of such an inspirational young woman. The first few were hesitant, penciled in a childlike scrawl. Glancing over her information, I ascertained that she'd been nine when she started the first journal. I read it slowly, thinking that perhaps Wes would be like this Sara Sidle—going to Harvard at sixteen and overcoming any myriad of obstacles. She had talked primarily about school—she liked her teacher because the woman had been nice and had let Sara do science projects in the back of the classroom while she taught the rest of the kids things Sara had long since mastered. She borrowed books from the attached middle school's library so that Sara wouldn't be bored with the books the elementary had to offer.

She didn't like the kids, for the most part. She played with a girl named Emma for a few weeks on the playground but then the girl moved. The others teased her for being smart and a teacher's pet and for wearing hand-me-down clothing. The ones who knew about her parents were cruel about that as well, and eventually the entire school found out. She wrote that it was the looks more than the words that upset her the most. She wrote that she'd drawn a picture of a whale getting harpooned after reading Moby Dick, and her teacher had sent her to the school counselor. The kids said she was crazy.

…She was just brilliant. She was in the fifth grade, a year younger than the rest of her class but ahead of them in most subjects, and she'd read Moby Dick. Fifth graders, as a rule, didn't read Moby Dick, much less understand it. Clearly, she had.

I turned the page to find a copy of the drawing. Even though she had drawn it at the age of ten, it showed… potential. I wondered if art had become a hobby for the adult Sara Sidle? Would she have gone home from a long shift at the lab and sat down to sketch to clear her mind? Would she and my mother have gotten along… talked about art?

I learned that eleven year old Sara had been distressed at being a flat-chested girl in a classroom full of twelve year old 'bimbos' as she put it. I smiled at her just-hardly pubescent angst and frowned when she wrote about not taking a desert in the lunch line so she could save a dime of lunch money every day to save up for deodorant… because she was about that age, but her foster parents had said she didn't need it yet.

I walked with a twelve year old Sara worried that her new friend, Ashley, had already kissed two boys and she had not. I worried that even though she had been smart enough to move up a grade, that perhaps she hadn't been emotionally ready to have her peers be a year ahead of her. She started smoking at this age too—an older girl, Melanie, at her foster home had convinced her to try it. After that, she didn't write about it again, but I suspected that it hadn't stopped—her therapist had probably not liked it. Maybe he'd even told her foster parents…

Thirteen year old Sara was frantic that not only did she not yet have her period, but she was still a solid A-cup. I smiled, silently grateful that Wes was a boy. I couldn't imagine trying to deal with all those feminine issues as a father. She kissed a boy this year—Jacob, two years older and head of the science club. And nearing the end, she got the much awaited visitor, and spent most of fourteen complaining about it.

Women.

She also spent fourteen testing out of most of her classes and starting higher level classes. She had stopped writing so candidly, by now—that secret, surly time called 'teenage' seeming to have its grip on her. She described her classes and the homework in detail, as if avoiding writing about boys and friends and her home life.

By fifteen her psychologist must have been as sick of this as I was, because she brought up personal things again, but in a perfunctory way—like he'd told her he didn't care what she'd dissected in AP Biology that day, and certainly didn't want the journal used at a way to take notes during said dissection. So I heard that there was a dance coming up, but not whether she was going or wanted to go or if anyone had asked her. I learned that Stephanie Reese was having a bonfire party at the beach during spring break, but not if Sara had been invited or if she'd gone… Had she drank? Stayed home? Found an equally drunk teenage boy and lost her virginity under the stars on the beach?

Sixteen year old Sara cared about one thing only—Harvard, and her applications. She had a part-time job and she was saving all her money, in case she didn't get enough of the nearly sixty scholarships she had apparently applied for. They turned out to be unnecessary—Harvard footed more than half the bill for her test scores alone, and would probably have kicked in more if she hadn't told them how many of the scholarships she did get. I would have fought for a woman like a Sara.

…If… if I were a school administrator… in charge of admission, that is.

When I finished her compulsory journals and looked at the clock, I realized that I hadn't moved since I'd started, just after lunch. It was nearly eight thirty, and Debbie and my mother would be expecting me soon. …It was with a great deal of regret that I placed her file back in evidence and left for the day. I felt like there was so much more to learn about Sara… I felt like I had lost so much, in not being able to hire her… like simply putting her file away for the night was a loss.

I went home, ate with my family, and once again crawled into bed with my wife. …But I almost felt guilty, doing so. I wasn't sure why, but it weighed on me. Sleep came only after hours of lying in the dark beside her, and then my dreams were filled with harpooned whales and training bras and the little girl from the video smoking cigarettes and kissing faceless teenage boys between the sky-reaching flames of a bonfire and the rising tide of the surf. I woke up shaken at four in the morning and got up to shower, unable to lie beside her any longer.


	44. Chapter Forty Three

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Fair warning, I was struggling to keep my eyes open as I wrote this, so there are probably more typos than usual. Sorry, but since I won't be able to post tomorrow, I wanted to update again tonight if I could.

Thanks for all the reviews! :) I find it rather funny that the most notable part of the chapter seemed to be Grissom's insensitivity to the plight of women. Vaginas everywhere are outraged.

Kathy-Your patience has been rewarded. :)

Jelly-I get the feeling you speak of such temptation from experience. ...There's a story there. I know it. :)

Everyone else: Enjoy!

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Chapter Forty-Three:

Gil was acting… strange.

I know that's a little much coming from the woman who was pretending to be his wife and explaining the changes away as a result of life-altering trauma and the realizations that come from seeing your life flash before your eyes… but he seemed… off.

The weekend had been blissful, and Monday morning he'd kissed me soundly before slipping out to head into to the lab early. My stomach twisted a few times—I knew he would more than likely be receiving my file that day—but what I had done was so out there… so beyond normal human understanding of reasonable choices and events… that I wasn't too worried.

Not really.

He stayed late again, but he was home in time to kiss Wesley, eat a belated dinner, and talk to his mother before he followed me to bed. He didn't seem like he was going through the motions, or that he'd had a huge breakthrough in his case, or that he suspected me of my deception, or even that he was upset at me again for all the million things Debbie had done to justify his anger. He just seemed… removed. His eyes were distant. He was… preoccupied.

I tried to pull it out of him casually. I asked about the lab, and about the case, and about his day. He sighed and told me that he was exhausted, and that he hadn't learned anything probative to the case… and then he had closed his eyes, effectively ending the conversation. I had the feeling that Debbie wouldn't have stood for that, and I didn't really want to either… but the new Debbie I had become had let him have control, because it was what was needed to heal him from everything she'd put him through already.

So I let it go. The kiss on Tuesday morning was still solidly there and it was enough to raise me out of sleep enough to know that I didn't want him to go. But after he'd left and I'd rolled over to fall back to sleep, I realized the sheets were cold, and I wondered if that had happened simply from him getting up to shower and dress for work, or if he'd been absent for more time than I knew.

I tried not to be suspicious or needy. I hadn't expected him to come home for lunch, so when he didn't, why should that worry me? I hadn't expected him to be on time for supper, and so when he was late, why did I feel that it must be because he'd figured me out? The instinct to flee was strong, flooding my veins, but of course I didn't. I finally had something that was more important than my desire to run from my own self-destructive constructions—a family.

I bathed W—my son. I bathed my son and put him in pajamas and I tucked him in to sleep, reading stories and singing to him softly, running my fingers through his hair until his eyelids drooped and even the kiss I placed on his angelic little face didn't make him stir.

When I left his room, Elaina was standing in the hallway, waiting for me. Her expression was strange, and I was wary, but her voice came kindly. "I used to sing to Gil when he was a baby too…"

I smiled, surprised, imagining a curly-haired little boy, with lighter hair and a cleft chin, curling up in bed to ask for just one more story. "Ladybug Ladybug, fly away home?" I suggested, and the smile she gave me was the warmest one I'd gotten.

"No, he fell in love with bugs out in his father's greenhouse… I sang him lullabies. We painted his bedroom together, when he was seven…"

I didn't know if Debbie should know these things, but clearly Elaina had never told her. "Tell me about it…" I said, figuring that that, at least, was a safe request. And she did—she described a curious child, loud, she said, if I could believe that now, who had delighted in everything they'd done, from paint handprints to sponge painting spider stencils to the purely abstract creations of a carefree child. She paused, for a moment, and then smiled again.

"Let's go get some coffee…"

I was startled, but I nodded, and together we walked down the stairs, silently, to the kitchen. There was already a pot waiting, despite the late hour, and we sat at the table, hands clasping our mugs for added warmth while she described the preciseness with which she remembered Gil's laughter only a few days before she lost her hearing entirely. He'd been eight, on the beach, throwing bread to seagulls and chasing his father into the waves. She told me about his obsession with death and understanding it after his father had died, and the animals he'd find and bring home to autopsy. She told me how he'd taken in a stray cat when he was ten, after his father had died and the house had been all but silent. How she believed nurturing life brought his curiosity back to a healthy level.

She told me, without telling me, that she was willing to put our animosity behind us.

Gil came home even later—after nine—and his mother didn't stay up to talk to him, but simply kissed his halo of curls before heading to bed. I sat up while he ate, and he talked about the case, but not really. He repeated things he'd looked into last Friday… and I wondered, not for the first time, if I was about to lose everything as soon as it was all coming together.

He didn't confront me, and he didn't seem angry. He followed me to bed, and even kissed me back until I tried to deepen it, wanting the reassurance that he did indeed still care about me in blissful ignorance. He pulled back instead, telling me that he was tired, before rolling over to go to sleep.

Wednesday morning, the kiss was less present… less direct. He didn't want to stop, but he wouldn't allow himself to indulge anymore either. When he didn't come home until ten thirty, I decided that I needed to do something—anything—about what was happening. Because I'd gotten him—and he'd been happy, with me—and now I was losing him and I had no idea why.

Thursday the kiss was barely there.

I went to see him around eleven thirty, Wes in tow, to see if he wanted to grab lunch with us. The woman at the front desk paged him and then directed us to his office. I was grateful for the visitors-must-be-escorted policy, because otherwise I wouldn't have known where to go. I also had to restrain myself from indulging and digging through his office—he had such an interesting collection. Butterflies on the wall, a fetal pig in a jar, a tarantula in a terrarium, an extensive ant farm…

Wes stood in front of the farm, pointing and saying "Ant" and "Daddy Bugs!" alternately for a good fifteen minutes before he got bored and came back to my lap. Another fifteen passed before I gave up the waiting and left his office, frustrated. Yes, he's busy, but telling the woman I'd learned was named Judy that he'd meet us in his office in two minutes and then not showing for a half hour is inexcusable. I held Wesley's hand tightly—I had a vague idea of the layout of the lab; I'd been walked through it twice, and I was a quick study.

I headed in the direction of the front desk, intending to ask Judy to page Gil again or at the very least tell me where he was so I could stalk him down. I passed Greg who was drumming against his table with pencils, loud music blaring—he must be working overtime or covering for someone. Gil had told me that the day shift supervisor—Icky something—wanted Greg working days but Gil wouldn't let him. He said it made more sense to have one phenomenal team and one good team than to have two great teams. I wasn't exactly sure if I agreed with his statement… and I wasn't exactly sure I believed his explanation of his reasoning either. Honestly, I think he just wanted his old shift to keep the upper hand.

When I reached the front desk, however, it was another woman there who was quite sternly informing the man in front of her that he needed a visitor's pass and an escort in the lab. I turned and moved down another hallway, avoiding her, peering into the glass-lined rooms looking for lovely salt and pepper curls and burning blue eyes. They evaded me through several more hallways, until I was quite certain I was lost and thought maybe I'd turn back. I knew which way I'd come—I just didn't know which way to go.

Just as I had the thought, I found myself turning and seeing a dead end. The maze of hallways didn't continue this way—there were doors for bathrooms and a row of chairs in a little alcove in the wall and a few heavily-blinded windows. I turned, intending to follow my bread crumbs Hansel and Gretel style, back to Gil's office, hoping he'd be back and that the mean desk lady wouldn't see us—but we were no longer alone. Behind me, standing in the entrance to the alcove, was a tall, bald man with a greedy smile.

I tucked Wesley behind myself in what showed too clearly as fear—but his eyes betrayed something sinister and feral, and it was instinctual to put my baby behind me. His grin became lascivious.

"Debbie… You're looking good, considering the plane crash and all. …I assumed you'd be calling me, as soon as you could get Gil back in the lab to free up some of your time…"

I swallowed. Oh god. Debbie didn't. I felt my face pale and the palm grasping my son's hand get sweaty.

"I… I don't know why I would do such a thing."

He chuckled, stepping closer. I stepped back. This was a bad game to play, of course, because I was the one with a child and a wall at my back. "Come on, Debbie… Word around the lab is that you've changed. Just a look at you tells me that much—I promise I won't care if it's burns that you're covering up with all that clothing. Let me kiss them all better. I know you're not getting any from your 'husband'.

I wanted to scream at the man. But I was afraid. I didn't know what he was going to do, because despite his implications that Debbie had always been more than willing and consensual, the way he was moving forward, boxing me in, was frightening. The proud part of me wants to say that I remained calm to keep Wesley calm, but that's giving me far too much credit. I couldn't make myself speak.

He laughed again, and his strides became wider, more confident. My back hit the wall but I kept my feet out a foot, keeping Wesley in the space between my legs and the wall, still trying to do my best to protect him, despite the looming presence before us. He invaded my personal space even further, putting his head beside mine and running a slimy, disgusting tongue over the shell of my ear as two hands moved down to cup my ass rather aggressively.

Fear gone. Anger present. I dropped Wesley's hand and pushed hard against his chest. He wasn't expecting it and actually fell back just a bit but he recovered quickly, grasping my wrists and slamming them back into the wall behind me. I struggled not to cry out, to keep Wesley calm, but it was no use… he was crying now, getting louder with each second. I was afraid the man would hurt him if he was too loud, and I sought to distract him. I tried to knee his groin and hit his knee on the way up instead. He winced and slammed me back against the wall again.

"Stupid bitch! What, you're too good for me now that you're dressing like a lady and fucking your husband again?! Everyone knows you're a whore—the only question is whether you've lost the only thing you were really good at. Come on, why don't you get on your knees and earn your reputation back." His snicker sent cold chills down my spine, despite the repulsion the rest of his words had inspired. "…Don't worry. I'll cover the kid's eyes…"

I struggled fiercely against his grip, now in a full panic, trying desperately to kick him without kicking Wes who was still crying—and then there was a voice behind him and the man was pulled from me. Gil whirled him around and swung back, landing his fist directly against the man's jaw, the force of it sending him turning backwards and stumbling into the row of chairs there. After a moment of pure shock, I frantically reached for Wes, sliding down to the ground and tugging him into my lap, trying to soothe him.

Gil wrapped his arms around us too, rocking gently, laying kisses on each of our heads. I was trembling, but not because I'd never been in a similar kind of situation. I had been so very frightened for Wes. I never would have forgiven myself…

The man's name was Ecklie, not icky, and he was promptly fired. Someone I'd heard Gil talk to and about many times, Jim Brass, took my statement, helping me file charges... and then Gil drove us home, apologizing and saying things had just been busy—six car pile up on the interstate. One of the cars was the sheriff's, so they were treating it as suspicious circs. He took another sandwich on the road with him, and Wesley and I were left alone again.

He didn't ask about what had happened—he didn't ask what my previous relationship was to the man—but I knew that he knew what Debbie had done. It had been obvious… and if it hadn't been, surely the man would have used the affair as evidence why he shouldn't be charged with attempting to force himself on me. So Gil knew.

He knew.

And there was nothing I could do about it but… wait. My entire life, post-plane crash, is waiting. Waiting for Gil to come home, waiting for Wesley to play again, waiting for my deception to be discovered, waiting for a break in Gil's case, waiting for Gil's case to be solved. Waiting for test results and surgeries and for Gil to fall in love with me.

…I'm good at waiting.

I'm not good at sleeping alone, which I did that night, for the first time since we'd made love.


	45. Chapter Forty Four

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Sorry I didn't get this up last night, we ended up staying later than I thought we would. :)

Let me know what you think of this. I wasn't sure how well-known attachment disorders are, so I did my best to explain them without making it an obvious aside in the story, like on CSI when Sara explains to Warrick how something very basic that he's done a hundred times works... and I'm not a psych major, so I probably didn't do it as well as I could have, but I tried. :)

* * *

Chapter Forty-Four:

Forgive me the rudeness—the judgment of a man purely on his aesthetics—but Ecklie is not an impressive male specimen. The doctors she had cheated on me with were older, but most had full heads of hair, handsome features, muscled bodies. She was a vain woman, and she did not give herself to just anyone… If not to feed her own appetite, and she had more than enough willing participants to provide for that particular need, she must have slept with Ecklie for something.

Her deception—her betrayal, larger than what I had previously suspected—did not minimize the gravity of his offenses. No one should force themselves on another person… and certainly, I was prone to be more aggressive in such a defense when the victim had been my clearly struggling wife and our child, tucked behind her legs, wailing. Even though she slept with him, he had no right…

So I comforted her, and Wes, and I sent her through the appropriate channels in pressing charges while I fired the bastard… but I did feel betrayed. More so than when she'd slept her way through the surgeons. Even if we hadn't been intimate again, this discovery would have hurt above and beyond what I was used to, because it was personal. It was a man who had been a colleague and rival and the bane of my existence since I'd known him. And her motives, while unclear, were not to please herself.

She had slept with Ecklie in order to hurt me.

This was the first time I was aware of her infidelity being directed at me as a weapon, and it was an effective one. It hurt. So I fled. I dropped them off, and I worked straight through the night, catching an hour or two on the couch in my office. My mother called, early, to ask why I hadn't been home and to make sure I was okay. I reassured her, told her to tell Debbie I'd be home in time to pick her and Wes up for our appointment with Dr. Samson, and then let her go. I wasn't in the mood to be questioned by anyone, and I certainly didn't have the answers to the kinds of questions my mother would ask.

Debbie was silent when I picked her up. Wes was silent too. The car ride, the walk inside, the elevator up, the wait in the lobby… silent. Dr. Samson came out, his shoes seeming extremely noisy on his approach, and we stood, walked inside, sat down. He frowned.

"…Something's happened." It wasn't a question, and therefore didn't require an answer. I looked at the top of Wesley's head where he sat in my lap. He looked to Debbie for the explanation and she shook her head slowly. Dr. Samson, however, kept his eyes on her… and the silence seemed to provoke her into speech.

"I—It's… just between… Gil and I. Nothing… important to… Wes."

The psychologist cleared his throat, glancing between us. "Okay… How have things been, family-wise, since our last session? And how has Wesley been behaving?"

Debbie glanced at me, noting my prolonged silence and then twisted her hands in her lap. "Wes… hasn't changed much. Sometimes he'll play—especially if Gil is home—and sometimes he'll just sit there again."

"Gil," he addressed me specifically, no doubt wondering why once again I was the quiet one. "Have you been working the same long hours as last week?"

I frowned. "I spent the weekend at home."

"And… during the week, it was long hours again?"

I sighed, frustrated with him and Debbie and the case that was still going nowhere, despite my previous conviction that Sara Sidle was the key. I felt a migraine coming on, and I had a bottle of my medication at home and at the office, but not with me. I was not in the mood.

"_Yes_, I work long hours when I have to. Not only am I providing for my family and protecting the lovely folk of Las Vegas from the wiles of a serial killer, but I'm fulfilling an obligation to my wife that ranks up there with marriage vows—I'm advancing my career. So fuck me if I stay late at the lab a few nights, but I don't think that's the problem—Wes has changed because he fell from the fucking sky in a burning cylinder of metal, not because I'm a workaholic."

Debbie's eyes were wide, her face pale, and Wesley did not turn to look up at me, though I felt his body tense. He wouldn't understand everything I said, but he knew the tone… he knew his own name. I immediately felt guilty and hugged him closer to me, relaxing when I felt his body untense and lean back into me. Dr. Samson had his eyebrows raised, but he didn't comment—he looked to Debbie. He wanted her to respond, angrily, and for us to fight, because in the past, that's how he'd gotten information out of us. And even though I knew better, I also knew that if Debbie commented, I wouldn't be able to resist fighting back.

She didn't provoke me, she simply straightened her shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and leveled her gaze on Dr. Samson. "He's right. Let's talk about Wes."

The perfect response. Rational, fair, loyal and wifely and so fucking irritating. I was sick of Debbie being… not Debbie. Yes, I liked the changes—I liked that she wasn't a raging bitch who ignored her son in favor of appeasing a sexual appetite larger than stratosphere tower (forgive me the phallic references)—but I didn't like not knowing how to read her. I didn't like her taking my side and doing things right and being the rational and forgiving and virtuous one for a change, because I couldn't trust a fucking word she said.

Ecklie had proved that. She'd done it intentionally to hurt me, which meant that I should be even more suspicious of her manipulations, now. …So I snapped, unprovoked.

"God _damn_ it, Debbie. Stop playing little-miss-perfect-wife. We both know that you're not—that you're a manipulative little bitch and that you've gone to great lengths to hurt me. Don't play games and defend me to our shrink simply because you think it'll get you into bed with me again. Because you know me, don't you? You know that even if I won't say it, I wouldn't be fucking you if you meant nothing to me, and that's just going to fuck with me more. You'll go sleep with another wing of specialists at the hospital or maybe work your way through my lab and whereas before it would have irritated me, now it's going to break me. Is that your goal? Because, _fuck_, it would just be easier if you'd let me know and I could stop trying and thinking and just let you get on with it."

I was panting, emotional, and I didn't want to feel the guilt at the tears I saw in her eyes or at the tension now in my son's limbs because Daddy's yelling. Dr. Samson cleared his throat. "Wes, maybe you'd like to go get a sucker from Tami at the front desk. Come on, let's go." He offered a hand, and to my surprise, Wesley took it, albeit hesitantly, sliding from my lap and letting the man guide him to the door we'd come in.

"Tami? …Can you get Wes a sucker and keep him for a few minutes?"

The door closed and I swallowed hard, not looking over at the woman beside me on the couch who I loved and hated and just didn't understand. Dr. Samson sat down.

"…Is this kind of fighting… typical in your home?" He addressed Debbie. Perhaps he thought I was abusing her. Wouldn't that just be perfect? I'd lose everything, possibly go to jail, and she would take Wes and the money, the house… half my income and my entire relationship with the most important person in my life.

She sniffled beside me. "No. Really, doctor, it's… it's been a tough week for… for both of us. That's all this is."

He frowned. "Do you know that it's a sign of being in an abusive relationship, when one member makes excuses for the aggressions of the other?"

Ah, here were go…

To my surprise, Debbie scoffed. "Forgive me, _doctor_, but defending one's partner their moments of weakness is a sign of a devoted and loyal relationship. If I had unexplained injuries or if Wes seemed afraid of Gil… if I was exhibiting signs of submission and fear myself, rather than just guilt and acknowledgement of the truth of his statements, then you could talk to me about abuse."

Her voice was harsh, condescending, dismissive. It surprised me. Certainly, she hadn't said anything… extreme… but something in her tone rang with authority. Like she understood the dynamics of an abusive relationship all too well. Dr. Samson tilted his head, and I was guessing that he had noticed this as well. Was there something Debbie hadn't told me? Her parents had died in a car crash when she was a teenager, but maybe they'd been abusive. …Or maybe one of the doctors…

"…Okay, forgive me Debbie, I was simply looking out for your best interests. …Now, apparently the two of you are… intimate… again. And you don't know what to do with it…what it means. Do you think that this confusion is causing Wes some problems? Because I'll be frank—what I've ascertained is that Debbie, you were a rather absent mother… and then not seeing you for months after the crash… it scared him. He has an insecure attachment disorder. I would categorize it as somewhat avoidant and somewhat resistant/ambivalent."

Neither of us responded, so he continued. "A child who is exhibiting a resistant/ambivalent attachment disorder will be anxious to remain in the parent's presence, but then struggles to get away. They hesitate to explore their environment. An avoidant attachment disorder is characterized by avoidance or just ignoring a parent's presence, displaying few strong emotional outbursts."

He paused, letting us take this in. "Wesley is reluctant to explore, he worries about leaving your presence yet is unresponsive when he's near you. And Gil, I would venture to say that while his attachment to you is stronger, the plane crash and the work load have worsened this. He hardly reacted to your emotional outburst."

My mouth was dry. I could hardly think. "What… what can we do?"

He sighed, dropping his pen to his clipboard in frustration. "You can figure out your own shit so that you can focus on your son. You both keep insisting that you don't need relationship counseling and that you're perfectly happy with your screwed up marriage the way it is, but you're not, and what's worse, Wesley isn't."

I felt chastened, and ashamed, and horrified at myself. And though Debbie looked as though she felt the same, her words were… defensive. "I don't know if you're right. Our relationship was in turmoil in San Francisco and he was fine."

He pursed his lips. "It clearly wasn't in as much turmoil. Something's changed."

"Not really." She countered. "We almost slept together there, and then we fought about it. He was fine. We slept together here, fought about it, and he's not fine."

I expected him to point out what I was thinking—that the completion of the act was more relationship altering than almost completing it. But he didn't. Instead, "Why didn't you sleep together in San Francisco?"

"I—…Excuse me?" she snatched a water from the table, but didn't open or drink it. She simply fidgeted.

"You said it almost happened—why did it stop?"

At Debbie's silence, no doubt going over a myriad of emotional reasons why it hadn't taken place, I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose and closing my eyes. "Debbie's been different, since the crash. So different that it made me suspicious—how could one person change so much? So when I…" I swallowed. "I pulled her shirt off, and she didn't have her back tattoo… a butterfly that she'd gotten for me. …Kind of. It… spooked me. She… explained that she'd had it removed while she was in San Francisco with Wes and I just hadn't seen her back since before then, because of the crash but… it was enough to make me run for the hills."

Dr. Samson's eyes were wide, and he turned to Debbie. She opened her mouth, but I never got to hear what she would have said—Wesley was crying, and the sound was coming closer, and then there was a knock on the door. Debbie was out of her seat in a minute, opening it and scooping him into her arms. And despite the attachment disorder diagnosis Dr. Samson had just delivered, he did not pull back from her—did not cry to be with her and then struggle to get away—he clung to her, whimpering, and the receptionist shrugged.

"I tried to tell him he'd get to see Mommy and Daddy in a minute, but…"

"Thank you, Tami." Dr. Samson murmured quietly, clearly waiting for Debbie to bring Wesley back over to the couch. But she shook her head slowly.

"I think we're done here. He's not avoiding me, and it's been forty minutes. You can use the other twenty to come up with some other excuse to delve into our personal lives…" She turned and left and after a moment, I sighed and rose, following her out without a word to Dr. Samson. I wasn't sure if I agreed with Debbie, or him, or neither… I just knew that I needed a quiet, dark room and some drugs.


	46. Chapter Forty Five

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: :) ...Reviews, yes? -giggles fiendishly-

* * *

Chapter Forty-Five:

The night was quiet. Gil dropped us at home, took some medication, and went back to work. Though if the signs of pain were any indication, he'd probably do an hour of work and then end up hiding in the dark of his office. But considering his level of anger—the things he'd said to me—I figured that I should let him do things his way. Elaina made Wesley lunch, and I put him down for nap in my bedroom, curling up beside him and sleeping too—because I was so very exhausted. I was tired to pretending, tired of lying, tired of fighting over all the things I hadn't done but for some reason had believed it would be worth taking on as my own sins.

…I thought about leaving, once again, but I dismissed the idea right away. I had absolutely nothing left to go back to. I had no access to any money I might have had, no place to live, to way to prove who I really was… and I would have a hell of a time proving my real identity to my insurance company, much less convincing them they needed to pay for my face to be returned to normal… if that was even possible.

No doubt they'd call it cosmetic.

And, in truth, I was happier being Gil's horrible and hated wife than going back to being Sara Sidle, alone and childless. I had worked hard to get to where I was, and I was happy with who I was—but the ability to completely reinvent myself and take away my past in favor of getting to share a family with the two most important people in my universe? It was worth everything I'd given up and more. And while I felt guilty for what I was putting the pair of them through, things could only get better… certainly, new information could come out, as it had with Ecklie, and I could be found out. But no matter what happened, it all would have taken place before the plane crash.

Wesley had lost a terrible mother, and gained one who loved him. Gil had lost a cheating and manipulative gold-digger of a wife, and while he might be confused by the differences, he had gained someone he could trust… someone who loves and desires and understands him.

If he divorced me, I would get what I deserved for the lie. I would give up any claim I had on Wesley and the money, and I would disappear… if I could, I'd go back to San Francisco, prove who I was, and quietly regain my life. And if he didn't… then I would keep the fairy tale life I'd always wanted and never thought I could have on my own, dysfunctional though it seemed to be just now.

Wes must have woken before I did—he was downstairs eating supper with Elaina when I woke up. And I still felt exhausted. Like I could lie in bed for the next three days and not feel rested. …I knew this was a sign of depression, and I knew that I was beginning to feel like I was in a hopeless situation… and it scared me. I got up, showered, applied another band-aid over the tattoo I would need to get removed here eventually, and dressed in lounge pants and a long-sleeved shirt.

I sat down to eat with the pair of them, and Elaina's eyes were concerned, but she didn't ask anything. Clearly, she knew that Gil and I were dealing with things… I appreciated that she let me be. She was his mother, first and foremost, more than my friend… but I needed a friend so badly that if she offered me kindness, I would probably overtalk. Even if I didn't give away my identity, she would inevitably take his side. I was the wife who couldn't spell fidelity if my life depended on it, and she was my victim's mother.

They finished first, as they'd started first, and Elaina took Wesley up for his bath. He went to bed before Gil came home… and then Elaina went to bed, and Gil still wasn't home… and then, to my utter surprise, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Debbie?"

"Gil?"

"Listen, I know it's late… I'm gonna be out all night." He hadn't called the other night, when he hadn't come home. Why was he calling now?

"Is everything alright?"

"We've got another body… We don't know if it's our serial yet or not, but… it looks like it."

I frowned. "Can I bring you something, to the lab? Food or… more migraine medication?"

"No. No, I'm… fine. We just got back to the scene—I won't be back at the lab for at least another few hours. Well after midnight. Don't worry about it. …Listen, is… is Wes okay?"

I nodded, biting my bottom lip. "Yeah, he… he's good. …You haven't eaten all day, Gil."

"I'm fine, Debbie. Please, just… go kiss him for me. Tell him I'm sorry?"

I sighed. "I'll tell him…"

"Great. I really have to go… Bye Debbie." He hung up without waiting for a response.

I went upstairs, kissed my sleeping son's cheek and whispered that Daddy's sorry he couldn't tuck him in and kiss him goodnight, and then I moved back to the kitchen, once again packing up leftovers and a container of ice cream as well as his medication. I took it to the lab and once again, Greg the crazy-haired lab tech escorted me. He flirted in a harmless sort of way that put me at ease and he left me at the entrance to Gil's office, even though he wasn't supposed to.

I moved in, turning on the light and closing the door behind me. I didn't want someone to walk by and see me and get Greg in trouble. I didn't know him well, but I felt rather affectionate towards the young man. I unpacked the tupperwares, finding Gil's mini-fridge and placing the smaller ice-cream filled one up in the tiny freezer section. I turned back to the larger one, containing his mother's beef stroganoff, and put it in as well. Then I looked around his desk for a sticky note to let him know there was food in there for him.

I found them underneath a file that looked suspiciously as if it had been closed in a hurry. And… hadn't he said he had just gotten _back_ to the scene? So this was more than likely the original photographs from the first processing of the scene. There wouldn't be any evidence back yet, but there would be pictures… I sat in his chair, hesitating, glancing at the door. The lab was very still.

I pulled off a sticky note, sticking it to the center of his desk, writing 'Gil—' in writing that looked partly like Debbie's old handwriting, partly like mine, and partly like the childlike scrawl I'd been slowly improving. I glanced back at the file, and the door, and the file. I slid it off the desk, into my lap and turned so that my right arm was on the desk, my right side to the door, looking down at the file in my lap. If someone walked in unexpectedly, I could hide what I was doing.

I finished the note, quickly—'I brought food for you. Left it in the fridge. Also, here's some meds for the headache. I'm sorry and I love you. Debbie.'

Feeling like I had sufficiently covered my tracks, I opened the file. I didn't know this woman, although it said she'd been identified at Lois Campbell. She was on a bed, naked, her hair over her face. And though there was no blood lingering—she'd clearly been cleaned—she had multiple stab wounds in her torso. Her hands were up by her face, and there was a small piece of paper tucked in them. …Gil hadn't mentioned anything like that with any of the other girls.

I flipped through the pictures—the top several were of her, close ups and overalls of everything and anything—but then they moved on to the bathroom—a hotel bathroom, by the look of it. There was a man on the floor, who'd also been stabbed brutally, but he hadn't been cleaned. There was blood everywhere—so much so that I could practically smell it. And behind him, in the tub, I could just make out…

I turned to the next picture, and it was a picture of just the child in the tub, his arm draped over the edge, his tiny face pale. His throat had been slit, and I found myself gagging. I flipped through the pictures as if on autopilot, because I didn't want to keep looking. I wanted to run far, far away… I wanted to vomit, scream, cry. This was the serial—the M.O. was right, and the newspapers hadn't known the positioning of the body to motivate a copy cat—but he'd changed. He'd never killed families before… never left notes in his victim's hands.

The last picture had me closing the file and frantically replacing it on the desk before running from the room in a panic. I knew what I would have to do—and it was good that Gil was working late and Wesley was sleeping, because if I had to look into either set of blue eyes, I wouldn't have the strength to go. …The least I could do was be gone before Gil got home and Wesley woke up. Because that was the message that had been sent—I didn't know who this guy was, but he'd figured me out, and he'd changed because of me. The words on the note in her hands, the change in his pattern, shown in detail in the very last picture of the file… they were a warning, and I didn't need to hear it twice:

_"I see you, Sara. Is your life worth theirs?"_


	47. Chapter Forty Six

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Kathy said I _had_ to. :) So here you are.

Thanks for the musical addition, Silly. _Dun Dun Dun!_

Enjoy!

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Chapter Forty-Six:

I drove home in a blind panic. Whoever this was… however he'd figured me out… he had threatened Gil and Wes. So I would pack my bags, leave a note confessing my sins, kiss my so—Wesley, not my son, anymore—goodbye, and go out into the world. I knew the name of Debbie's bank and I looked like her—I could mimic her signature well enough to fool a bored teller. I would take enough to find a place to sleep… and I would wait for the killer to find me. Maybe, at the very least, my death would give Gil the clue he needed to solve it.

I took only a few outfits—enough to get me through a few days—and took my time writing a letter.

_Gil—_

_I know that you'll be hurt to come home and find that I'm gone. Maybe, by the time you come home, you'll know the truth, and then I'm just fooling myself to believe that you'll be hurt rather than relieved… Regardless, I wanted to leave some explanation. _

_I'm not Debbie—I'm Sara Sidle. I sat next to your wife and Wesley on the plane, and a woman really did ask if I was his aunt or his mother. I knew who she was—I had half a mind to tell you, in our interview, that your wife was a terrible mother. …When the plane went down, I did grab Wes. I wasn't lying when I told you that I put him between the seat and myself… I woke up in the hospital. I couldn't move, I couldn't talk… I fell in love with your voice long before I understood what had happened. _

_And by the time I could communicate, I already had Debbie's face. By the time I could tell you the truth, Sara Sidle's life would have been gone—no apartment, no money, no possessions… and no face. …I lied to you, and I can't ever tell you how sorry I am for the pain it's caused both you and Wesley. But I did it because I had fallen in love with you, and with Wes, and because I couldn't imagine giving up the perfect life that had been thrust upon me in order to go back to nothingness. _

_When I was in your office today, I looked in the case file. Whoever he is, he's talking to me—and those people… that husband and the little boy… they died because he wanted me. He was telling me that he would get to me, even under your protection… and then he'd take you and Wes too. But he doesn't want you… he just wants the girls. I don't know why, but I know that much. So I'm leaving. And I'm sorry. _

_…If I had to do it all over again, I would. Tell Wes I'm sorry. _

_I love you._

_—Sara_

I kissed Wesley, I left the note on the bed we had shared, off and on, took two twenties from an envelope Gil kept in his office as emergency cash, and I started walking.

* * *

I came back to the lab, stressed and exhausted. I sank into my chair. It had been horrible—the little boy in the bathtub especially. And though it fit our serial's patterns, there were changes. He was evolving… I just didn't know why. I had called the San Francisco crime lab as they still hadn't sent us any information on Sara Sidle. Now that we had more reason to believe she was involved—the note with her name on it that was confusing as hell—they were a little happier to give information without a warrant.

So while I was tired, I was also anxiously awaiting the fax with any additional information they could give us about her. …I mean, sure, it's possible that he meant another Sara. There had been no last name and she was admittedly dead… so I knew it didn't make any sense at all. But that just meant we were missing some pieces of the puzzle. Any information we could find would help—either to determine our killer was speaking to a different Sara, or to understand why he was speaking to a dead woman.

I glanced at my desk—Debbie had been by, and left food. I wasn't hungry, but I knew first hand that my migraine meds worked better with food… and I needed more of them. Which she had also left.

It was rather hard to be mad at her when she kept doing things like this for me.

I pocketed the medication and pulled out the Tupperware and the fork resting on top of it, heading to the break room to microwave it and pour myself some coffee to wash down the pills. I put the food in, swallowed pills, and sat down to eat when the horrible beeping announced that it was done. I ate it while walking back to my office, and no sooner had the door swung open than my fax machine was coming to life, spitting out papers. I sat in my chair and rolled it over, taking bites in between looking at the pages as they spit themselves out.

Apparently, the San Francisco Crime Lab had wanted to be helpful—they had sent everything they had on her. There were performance reviews, evaluations for raises, dates of employment, vacation time she'd taken… So, basically nothing useful. It gave me addresses, phone numbers… the Lab Director had even written what he'd known about Sara, which had clearly been very little. But he told me he'd sent pictures of her via email, even though he didn't know if it would help.

Groaning, I wheeled the chair back to the computer. Honestly, I didn't know how pictures of her with other lab techs or from their last company picnic or whatever would help me… but I had nothing else, and I was curious. …I knew that it wasn't entirely realistic to believe you could fall in love with someone without having ever met them, but… but she was everything I could imagine wanting in a woman, now that I knew what I didn't want—what Debbie used to be, and probably still was. She was smart, independent, sensitive, strong-willed and opinionated. …And is it really so strange to love someone by reading their journals?

Of course, this made me feel guilty. Because I truly did like who Debbie had become. But I had gone back, throughout the week, to reread her journals, trying to glean any extra information or insight into her life. I had realized, on the second reading, that she had a sense of humor that I loved—it was subtle… sly… I learned, the third time around, what a truly big heart she had. …On the fourth, I knew I was in love with a woman who had died in the plane crash that I'd been so lucky to have my entire family survive.

So I was curious. I was in love with her, and the only thing I knew was that she looked a lot like Debbie and how she'd looked as a child. I opened my email, setting the Tupperware aside and reaching for the ice cream while it was loading. And there it was—an email from the San Francisco crime lab. I took a bite of ice cream and clicked it open.

It was her in the lab, and she did look remarkably like Debbie. But she was different… she had a more unusual, more intoxicating kind of beauty. I felt my heart beating faster, and it was a minute before I realized why… The twist of her smile, the precise purse of her lips… was so expressive. And her eyes—darker and deeper than Debbie's. Hadn't I noticed those… same… differences…

I dropped the ice cream to the floor of my office. It was so clear now… so…

…Had she… had amnesia? Why wouldn't she have just told me? …No. Sara Sidle had been masquerading as my wife, and she'd known it… and lied to me. Why?

…Even when she'd asked about Sara—er, herself—the other night… she'd said 'the woman who I look like?' not 'the woman who looks like me.' How had I not seen all this before? The tattoo, the mannerisms, the… complete change?

And then something else became clear—the serial killer knew it too. And what had he asked her? 'Is your life worth theirs?' …He had killed the family—the husband and the boy—as a warning to Wes and I. I sprinted—not ran, sprinted—out of the lab, calling home frantically. No answer. Of course, my mother wouldn't hear the phone, and even if it woke Wesley, he wouldn't answer it. …Where was Deb—Sara? She couldn't possibly know already, could she?

I didn't know if I was more worried or angry—I was simply propelled forward with the realization of what had taken place and what it meant. There was no time to question how I felt—I simply had to find her, and Wes, and make sure they were okay.

I parked in the driveway, running inside, turning on lights and shouting as I went. No answer. I checked on Wesley first—he was sleeping soundly, in his bed. I scooped him up anyway, unwilling to have him out of my sight, and went to our bedroom. There was a note—she knew, and she'd gone… She'd lied because she said she'd fallen in love with my voice, in the hospital. ...If I hadn't been so scared now, for her life, I'm sure I would have been angry... but I didn't have it in me.

I felt emptiness overwhelm me but I still had to check on my mother. She was sleeping, and I woke her. She dressed while I packed Wesley's diaper bag and a sleeping bag for him. I drove them to the lab, in a frenzy, calling Brass and explaining everything in a shout. He put out an APB on Sara Sidle/Debbie Grissom, and I ushered my family into the lab, assigning a uniform to guard the door. My mother could sleep on the couch, if she could sleep at all, and Wes could sleep in his sleeping bag on the floor. I wasn't leaving them home alone.

And then I assembled the graveyard team in the layout room, to go back through everything we knew about Sara Sidle. We had to find her, before _he_ did.


	48. Chapter Forty Seven

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: Last update for the night. Let me know what you think. :)

Jelly--if you're wondering, I enjoy Strawberry Juliuses. Julii? ...What's the plural of Julius? :) We don't have an Orange Julius here.

So if you're my director/cameo actor... I think I'll have to have Silly and GSRCSILVR25 do my sound effects. Any one else want to volunteer to do lighting? Camera man/woman?

I think Kathy's gotta do advertising--she's already making plays on a Field of Dreams. "If you build it, they will come." "If you post, then we will read." :) I like it.

...Yeah, I enjoy reviews way more than is rational. Hehe.

Goodnight, and enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Forty Seven:

I spent the night in a casino—they're open all night, but the ones on the strip are less seedy. I took the bus to the strip, and walked up and down it, pretending I was a tourist and that my backpack wasn't holding just enough essentials to get me through the next few days until the serial killer found me and left me naked with my hair over my face. I found myself watching the Bellagio fountains and wondering if he would come with a wig since my hair was too short. It was too late for the pirate ship show at Treasure Island but I walked to the Venetian and watched the gondolas and walked around, looking at the faux renaissance art and wishing I'd talked Gil into taking me to Phantom of the Opera before now.

I ended up in a bar at the Monte Carlo—it seemed less flashy than the others… easier to blend in. I bought a beer so I could stay without loitering. True, if you were gambling, they'd give you free alcohol—but I didn't want to gamble the only money I had. I sunk into a booth and tried to think what I would do. It was nearing four in the morning… soon I could take the bus to Debbie's bank and take out enough money to get myself a hotel room for the next few days. I assumed that if this guy knew enough about me to have figured me out, he wouldn't take more than a few days to find me.

Around six I ventured out of the bar, leaving the beer untouched. Usually I enjoyed a beer, but when you've given up everything—literally two lives—to wait to be murdered… the numbness of drink doesn't really seem like it will do the trick when you're faced with that kind of reality. Maybe the waiting would eventually push me to indulge, especially when I had more money in my pocket… but for now, it just didn't seem appealing.

I wondered if Gil had gotten my note yet—if he knew, or if he was still at the lab, working on Lois and family's murders. I climbed onto the bus, sitting in a window seat in the back and turning my back to it, my feet up on the seat beside me. I didn't want company. Was he angry with me? Would he understand why I'd done such a stupid thing? …What would Wesley think, when he woke up, and I wasn't there?

I blinked the tears away. They'd never truly been mine, and so I couldn't mourn their loss. They weren't mine to lose. I rode the bus for nearly an hour before I saw the name of the bank—I got off on the next stop and walked back. I was one of the first patrons, and I was sure I looked just like I'd been up all night in a Vegas bar, but I knew all Debbie's pertinent information and my signature was close enough to validate the story. I thought about closing the account, but I didn't—it felt greedy. I would simply have to come back in a day or so, if I was still alive.

This thought brought tears to my eyes—I took out a grand and then walked back to the bus station. I stopped at the first decent looking hotel off the strip and booked a room for the next night. I thought about keeping it longer but that seemed overly optimistic. I didn't want no one to notice my decomposing corpse until I started to smell simply because my killer had had the foresight to put a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door.

I, however, put the sign up, locked the door, and crawled into bed, exhausted. You would think, with the reality of your own death bearing down upon you that sleep would be impossible—but it wasn't. I drifted off, and didn't wake for hours. I ordered room service and turned on the TV, thinking that perhaps I ought to use the complimentary hotel stationary and pen to write… I don't know, my last words? Something moving and dramatic to mark the end of a life?

I let my cry over the turkey sandwich and fries I'd had sent up and flipped channels, nearly choking when I saw my face and Debbie's, side by side, on the television… saying that I was a missing person, and that anyone who saw me was supposed to call the police. Well, I was stuck inside for a while… maybe late tonight I'd go down to the gift shop and purchase a hat and a large pair of sunglasses…

I wondered how Gil had explained this to his lab… the police… how he'd explain himself to the media. I wondered if he missed me, or if he just didn't want me to die because then he'd feel responsible. I wondered what people thought about the search for two similar-looking women who were apparently just one person, and married to the city's Crime Lab Director. …I wondered if I should call him.

I wondered if there were pay phones downstairs, or if the gift shop also sold prepaid cell phones, so I could call him without telling him where I was.

I watched the news mindlessly for hours before I thought it would be safe to venture outside the hotel room—I did buy the hat and the sunglasses, grateful the kid I purchased them from looked like he hadn't ever watched the news in his life, and I got change for two dollars as well as directions to a bank of pay phones. If I stayed on too long, they would be able to trace the call to this casino, but the gift shop hadn't had prepaid phones and I was afraid to venture out further than my little hideaway.

I had to look up the lab's number in the phone book, and I tried desperately to remember how long you had to be on the phone for them to trace a call, but in the end decided that, worst case scenario, I would stay out of my room for a few hours if they came here to look for me. I dialed, and waited, hardly breathing.

"Las Vegas Crime Lab. How may I help you?"

"Can I speak to Gil Grissom please?"

"He's out of the building at the moment. Can I take a me—"

"Can I have his cell phone number, please?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't giv—"

"This is Sara Sidle… or, Debbie Grissom. Whichever you prefer."

There was a long silence on the line. "…Is there a number I can have him call you at?"

"No." I said, getting irritated. She paused again, obviously uncertain. …And then she gave in. I repeated the numbers in my head, over and over, hanging up on her so that I could insert money and dial before I misremembered the sequence… and then it was ringing again.

"Grissom." He sounded so very tired.

"…Wes isn't in the house, is he?"

There was a pause. "De—Sara?"

I swallowed. "I, uh… I just wanted to make sure he's safe and… apologize, again."

"Where are you, Sara?"

I shook my head, tears in my eyes. "I'm so sorry, Gil. I lied, and it was wrong, but… you… you have no idea how hard it is to wake up and… and be someone else. Have… nothing left of yourself…"

"Hey… I… I'm not mad, okay? Just tell me where you are, and we'll figure everything out."

"I just loved you so much… and I loved Wes. More than I've ever loved anyone. I… wanted to have a family. …I wanted to… have Debbie's family. I envied her so much."

"Sara, honey… Listen, Wes and my mom are out of the house… they're safe and he can't hurt them or me. So… tell me where you are, and we'll come get you. You… you don't have to do this."

He only wanted to save me. The casual slip of a term of endearment made it hurt that much worse. I winced. "My life isn't worth risking yours… or his. I'm… I'm okay with it." I thought about telling him that I loved him again, or that I was sorry, again… but it didn't need to be said. I hung up the phone, found myself a newspaper, and went into one of the hotel's restaurants. I ordered coffee and a salad and I waited… because I knew that I'd stayed on too long.

It was only a matter of time until they came, but I couldn't stay in the room. I was just glad I'd kept everything with me. I'd find a different hotel, once they'd gone. …And maybe, just a tiny part of me, wanted to see his beautiful face again. Even if I couldn't go back and risk his life…I could see him, just the once.


	49. Chapter Forty Eight

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: So, I thought of basically nothing else all day but how I wanted to play this out. I was thinking I'd have Grissom find Sara and there'd be lots of fun lab banter and arguing and angst while they searched for the killer... but I just didn't find the anger required for a prolonged will-they-won't-they in Grissom. So, here it is.

So, how many saw this coming? I figured he was a suspect, but I tried to be sneaky. ...This is my first attempt at anything like this. :)

Silly--if you honestly get that tattoo, I'll throw my rule about GSR happy endings out the window and you can have him!

...Oh, for Jelly's sake, Silly and GSRCSILVR... We need a _Mwahaha..._

* * *

Chapter Forty-Eight:

"Hello Debbie."

I looked up—I had heard the sirens, but I hadn't heard any footsteps into the restaurant. I assumed they were up looking through hotel rooms… so I didn't know who would have found me. It wasn't, as I expected, a police officer who thought he was too cool for anything but a casual greeting when he'd found the target of a state-wide missing person search. It was Dr. Samson.

My eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, Hello, doctor…"

He smiled. "Ah, out in the real world you can just call me Peter. Or Pete, if you like."

He slid into the booth across from me, an action which also surprised me. "It's a surprise to see you here—I eat lunch here about three times a week. …But I'm guessing that you're not a regular."

I considered saying I was meeting a friend, but if he was just getting here, wouldn't he notice that the friend didn't come the whole time he was eating his dinner? "I, uh… I'm not. Gil and I are just… having problems, so… I needed an hour or two away."

There. That was more than plausible. I was just damned lucky he hadn't seen the news. …Although, if he had, maybe he had already phoned the police and he was simply trying to keep me here. I swallowed while he told the waitress who'd approached that he'd take coffee, black. He turned back to me. "I'm sorry—I hope you don't mind if I join you. I'm not expecting anyone, and it just seems silly for us both to eat alone…"

I bit my bottom lip. He was a respected psychologist. There was no way he hadn't called the police if he knew. "You know, that'd be really nice but… I was finished. I think I'm gonna head home now." I started to rise, pulling the bill that had been laid on the edge of the table towards myself.

"Sit down, Sara." His voice was low, threatening, but calm. It sent ice through my veins, and I complied instantly. I sat down, clasping my shaking hands in my lap, feeling how pale I'd become.

"You?" I couldn't help the vulnerable tone in my voice… the slight tremor on the end of the word.

He smiled. "Me. Now, I assure you you'll have plenty of time to ask all the questions you want, but the waitress is coming over as I speak. I can guarantee you there is none of your… forensic evidence… to back you up if you accuse me. And frankly, why would the public trust a woman who steals the dying wife of the crime lab's identity for months? Lets his child call her mommy… lures him into her bed?"

He took a long drink of coffee, his eyes surveying my face. "So you will be silent, or you will watch as everyone believes me over you, knowing that as soon as it all blows over, I won't rest until I have held little Wesley's heart beating in my hands…"

I swallowed convulsively. I was pale and trembling and freezing—chills running up and down my arms—when the waitress arrived. "Are you alright, ma'am?"

I glanced between her and Dr. Samson and nodded. "…I…I'm… fine."

"Can I get you anything else?" I shook my head—I couldn't even pretend to eat. The thought of food made me certain I would vomit.

She looked to Dr. Samson. "What can I get for you, sir?"

He ordered like he planned to stay for a while—an appetizer, a large meal with several sides… I wouldn't be surprised if he made me sit through him eating a slice of apple pie.

I was frightened, yes, but the fact of the matter was that I didn't have to think. I wasn't trying to escape—this is exactly what I'd intended, because the alternative was putting… the only real family I'd ever had… at risk. So I did what he wanted. I sat still, I answered the waitress when she tried to offer me some tea to make me feel better, though she couldn't place my ailment—especially with the innocuous, suited doctor across from me, smiling kindly—and I waited. Because cliché as it sounds, I did want answers.

She moved away from the table, and Dr. Samson turned to me with a smug sort of smile. "Ah, Sara. Tell me that you remember me?"

I shook my head, trying to control my breathing. Yes, the end was coming, but I could stave off the inevitable for a time, at least. Certainly he wouldn't kill me before he finished his meal—and if I could keep him talking after that… it wouldn't save me, but it would buy me precious, irreplaceable moments of that which I had never truly appreciated, even after the plane crash. Because my whole life, life itself had been a challenge… something to be endured, or overcome, but… when you have time to think, before the end, you realize that the simple action of breathing in and out—the sweet, overwhelming, amazing ability to comprehend that you are breathing and the process by which it works… the path air takes from nose to lungs to blood to brain…

Existence, all by itself, is a blessing, self-destructive though I may have been at different times in my life. I hadn't felt that way, before—but I knew it now. And I would do what I could to draw every second out, even if I wouldn't let myself run from him.

He frowned, almost playfully, at my head shake. "We lived with the McLanes… You were seven. Your first foster home—I was nine. You kissed me in the closet under the stairs when we were playing hide and seek, because we'd seen the older kids doing it…"

My eyes were wide. He was describing the memory one might describe a fond moment with a dear, life-long friend. "I… there was… you… changed your name?"

He shrugged off-handedly. "My juvenile records are sealed—changing my name at eighteen meant that the person I used to be all but disappeared. It's hard to be a respected psychologist when you went through enough foster homes to guarantee that half of San Francisco knows someone who would know you by name… Although, a few recognized me by my face anyway—apparently they didn't want to talk to some foster brat about their own issues in the foster care system… so I moved."

I shook my head slowly—it was pounding. I couldn't comprehend all of this… he'd been in front of us the whole time.

"Why… me?" I blinked tears away, turning my face from him. I didn't want him to see them, even if they'd been clear in my voice. His smile was actually rather warm… sympathetic.

"Well, to be fair, you were simply one of many… and you happened to be coming to Vegas. I so much prefer when they come to me… But when I had decided to have you, and then I believed I'd lost you in the crash… it was devastating."

"And then I walked into your office." I said, on a huff, in complete disbelief of my luck. I'd had a serial killer basically stalking me and my crazy plan to become Debbie had almost saved me. Almost.

He smiled—"Well, more or less. I actually didn't know that you weren't Debbie for quite some time… You are quite the actress. I mean, I didn't know the woman… but to fool her husband for months… impressive."

He said it as though I should gush at his praise—as though he thought his compliments were gifts. His behavior was far more discomforting than if he'd had a cold smile or empty, expressionless eyes. He wasn't a victim of psychosis or a sociopath or acting out abuse from his own past, repeating the cycle. He was rational, and kind, and friendly. Likeable, even, except that he was talking about killing me.

I swallowed, fighting back tremors. "When… did you?"

He took his time, placing a bite in his mouth and chewing slowly, before swallowing. "Well, I'd had you bugged for months. Your home, your cell phone, your purse… Believe me, that was the hardest part. You are rather paranoid, Sara—do you really need two deadbolts and a chain in a controlled access building?"

I rolled my eyes, half angry now and half upset at myself—how had someone been in my home without my knowing it? "Obviously I wasn't paranoid." I snapped, and he chuckled jovially, like this amused him to no end. He took a drink and speared more food on his fork, though he waited to bring it to his mouth, finishing his explanation.

"Well—on the plane, someone asked you if you were the boy's aunt or mother. The flight attendant said her name, and I did some research… wife of the Crime Lab Director—the very man you were so excited to come to Vegas and meet. Did you know, when you were sitting beside her, that you loved him? Or did you not fall in love with him until he was putting another woman's face over yours?"

I grit my teeth, not answering, and he chuckled. "Well, regardless, I also found some… interesting… pictures of Debbie on websites of… ill repute. The tattoo was kind of a trademark. I knew she wasn't likely to get rid of it… so when I find out the Sara Sidle look-alike in my office, whose husband keeps talking about how much she's changed, no longer has such a distinguishing characteristic… Well, I figured it was worth a shot."

Now he took his bite, but he swallowed quickly, as if this were the part he'd been waiting for. His eyes even looked the slightest bit less sane, and I didn't find it as comforting as I thought I would have, only moments ago. "I know you, Sara. I spent a year listening to you… You never broke that nasty journaling habit from all those years of counseling after Daddy had his way with you, did you? …Do you know that you mutter what you're writing, as you write? So very interesting. …You've always been soft-hearted. Selfless. You ranted to yourself for an hour when the one criticism you received from the thesis committee was that you empathized too much with the victim when your focus should have been the evidence…

"If you were Debbie, and I was wrong, you'd have stayed with them, ignorant of what my message with the dad and the boy meant… perhaps unaware I'd even sent one. …But if you were Sara—you would find out, and you would do everything you could to put distance between yourself and your 'family'. The missing person report on the news told me I was right—the police scanner told me where you were. …It was really too easy, Sara. I admit it, the switching identities threw me off… but…"

He trailed off, his eyes focused behind me. I turned and nearly choked, though there was nothing in my mouth. Gil was coming over to the table, an eyebrow raised. He looked a little mad, a little confused… very concerned… and those burning blue eyes made me feel weak. Made me want to cling to this life ever more—no matter what the risk. I didn't want them to, but my eyes flickered back to Samson. He had offered Gil a disarming smile, and though his eyes didn't even turn to fully meet mine—they focused on my nose instead—the message was clear.

I still had no proof—nothing to hold him. If I wanted to escape, I could—but we both knew what I would be risking.


	50. Chapter Forty Nine

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: Sorry this is up so late. Busy day. Plus my fiance decided he wanted to use the computer for two hours to void the warranty on his crazy expensive, wholly unnecessary droid phone thing, just so he can make it work a little faster. ...Can you tell I'm not happy about it? :) I'm not.

Anyway, hope you guys enjoy! I'll keep writing, tonight, but chances are I won't finish before going to bed... so this is probably the only update for tdoay. Sorry. Thanks for all the reviews! :)

* * *

Chapter Forty-Nine:

She had called me. De—Sara had called me, and she… sounded like she was scared, and like she missed Wes and I…

…I didn't know how I felt about this whole thing, honestly. I mean, it was more than a little strange explaining to the graveyard shift—people I still considered _my_ team and good friends—that I hadn't realized it until now, but the woman who'd pulled my son off a burning plane had not in fact been my wife, but someone I'd been intending to interview to work with them… who had then proceeded to pretend to be my wife.

In the time we were waiting for information to come in after we'd issued the missing persons report, there was still information to process on the latest scene. He'd changed things, this time… which meant he was more likely to have made a mistake. We'd combed through the scene in detail twice, and although it looked as clean as any of the others, we were going through evidence, piece by minute piece, hoping for some small clue. It wasn't often that we got the chance to save people—in this job, nine times out of ten, we came too late to do the saving. So we were frantic—helped along, of course, by the fact that we knew her.

Wife or not, she was a CSI… she was a woman I had lived with for months… slept with… a woman who had left rather than using my considerable ability to have her protected, because of the risk it would cause Wes and I. She was one of ours.

At the same time… I was confused. Despite my conviction that I had been in love with her—and the guilt which had accompanied it, leading me to turn her away when I believed she was my wife—I didn't know what to feel towards her. In truth, if I had been able to view the Debbie of the past few months as separate from the woman I'd come to all but hate, I probably would have said I loved her. I just hadn't been able to separate the two. So when that woman turned out to be the brilliant, fascinating, warm-hearted creature from the journals… you would think it would be easy to say how I felt.

It wasn't—I felt… guilty… that I hadn't mourned Debbie's death when it occurred, and now that I was aware of it… I didn't have the time to really concern myself. The fact was that she was already gone—had been for months—but Sara wasn't. Sara was still very much alive. Sara had risked her life to carry a strange child out of the wreckage… Sara had given herself up to a serial killer…

Sara had lied to me. She had lied every step of the way. She had lied with her words, her actions, her body…

It felt like a betrayal, but how can a stranger betray you? They can hurt you… wrong you… but betrayal requires some sort of trust to have existed prior to said wrong-doing.

My mother and Wes had taken up space in my office—tonight I'd be moving them to a hotel room with several armed officers to guard them until we'd found the guy—but for now I was without a home. So I sat in a conference room, with the lights off because there was nothing for me to do but wait, and I overheard yet another conversation I wasn't supposed to hear.

"But Grissom said she hadn't been able to communicate until after they'd given her Debbie's face—I mean, if you had no one and you'd lost everything—even your own identity—can you honestly say you wouldn't at least consider taking what fate had handed you?"

Nick scoffed at Greg's words. "Okay—I get it about losing everything. She didn't have any family… I mean, I get it. But…being Debbie _had_ to be worse than being yourself, with a few setbacks."

Greg chuckled. "Okay, point taken, but… but maybe she didn't know who she was signing up to be—I mean, not really—before she did it. And 'setbacks' is a mild way to say she had no home, no possessions, no money, and another woman's face. …The note she left Griss… she loves him, Nick. She fell in love with him without even seeing his face—that gives whole new meaning to the phrase 'true love is blind.'"

They seemed to sit there for a moment, letting that settle, Nick probably fairly skeptically, Greg looking knowing… and then Greg spoke again, the smile clear in his voice. "I _told_ you she was different. And if you look at the pictures the San Francisco lab sent over—Sara is way hotter than Debbie was. …You know, she's not technically married…" He added, and even I had to smirk… perhaps only because I'd just heard the reverence with which he spoke about her love for me.

Nick snorted. "They look almost exactly the same! That's how this whole mess even happened! How can one be hotter than the other?"

"Hotness is more than skin deep." Greg declared, with all the enlightenment of a philosopher in his voice, and Nick's second snort of disbelief was interrupted by a beeping. He hurried off to check on results which no doubt had yielded nothing, and Greg headed back to his lab to check on his own lacking results.

…Well, anyway, it didn't matter how I felt and whether it was a betrayal, because none of it would matter until we found her. And I was so very afraid we wouldn't find her in time.

And that's when she called me—she wouldn't tell me where she was, but I'd practically run to the AV lab when it happened, guessing as much. We didn't even have to trace—the phone number wasn't blocked, and it was registered to a pay phone in the lobby of a small hotel off the strip. Within minutes we had a troop of uniforms speeding there, Brass and I following behind.

I didn't expect them to find her in her room—and so I was unsurprised when they didn't. They were methodical—searching empty rooms and knocking on those which were occupied—while I walked slowly through the public areas. Even though this was a small hotel, it still had several restaurants, several bars, a lounge, rows and rows of slot machines, and several gift shops. It was some amount of time before I found her…and I almost missed her.

She had on a baseball cap, and with her short hair, the back of the booth covering her shoulders, she could almost be mistaken for a teenage boy. But I'd spent months quashing down my desire to kiss that delicate expanse of throat, and a few precious, stolen moments actually doing so—and I knew it was her. My next awareness was strange. She was… sitting across from Dr. Samson.

I couldn't see her face, but his was quietly relaxed. He smiled easily, chuckled under his breath, ate with minimal pausing… I wondered if he hadn't seen the reports on the news, asking anyone with information to inform the police. Granted, if he hadn't gone home between finishing work and coming here, he might not have.

I approached slowly, because I didn't have a uniform with me and I didn't want her to run before I was close enough to catch her if she tried. Also, any one of these people around us could be the serial, waiting for Samson and the police to retreat so he could make his move. When I was close enough to read his lips, I did so—I couldn't help it, it was a force of habit, especially now that my mother had been living with us. Although he was not enunciating particularly well, and he moved his head several times, distorting my perceptions… but it seemed like he'd said…

"…family. … missing person report…news…police scanner… too easy, Sara. ...Switching identities… off… but…"

He'd seen the news. She must be explaining to him. Had she called him for an impromptu counseling session? Had he merely run into her here? He caught sight of me then and trailed off, offering a smile. Sara turned to look at me and she seemed… scared? No, that couldn't be right. Or, maybe it could be—she was probably scared of the killer… either for herself or for me, now that I'd found her. She looked back to Samson and he glanced at her… and then they both looked back to me as I came even with the table.

"…Hello, Dr. Samson. May I steal my wife for a moment?"

The doctor raised his eyebrows. "…I was under the impression that she was not, in fact, your wife… The news…"

I gave a placating smile. "Force of habit. Sara?"

She glanced back at him and then turned and met my eyes. I recognized the expression—it was one she'd started using when we went to counseling… it was a mask. Was it a mask because she was with Samson, or because she was trying to be strong with me present? Not show the vulnerability and fear that I'd seen a moment ago when she'd turned?

She took a deep breath and stood, following me all the way out to the waiting area, her eyes flickering around her nervously.

"Gil, I… I'm sorry that I lied."

I shook my head. "That isn't important right now. Let's get you somewhere safe."

She shook her head. I was learning that Sara Sidle could be rather obstinate. "No. And…" She closed her eyes, drawing in a breath. "And you can't make me come with you. I haven't committed a crime. I'm not missing anymore—call off the search, go home, take care of Wes and your mother."

I frowned. "De—Sara…" She winced, but I continued. "Listen, we… we can protect you. We can keep everyone safe until we figure out who this is."

She looked at her feet, and shook her head softly. When she looked back up, there were tears in her deep, dark brown eyes. "Gil… I can't. I… I just need you to know how sorry I am. That… that I only did it because… I love you. I know that… that you don't even know me, but… I do."

I shook my head, not ready for this confrontation and not ready for her to be telling me goodbye—because she was. "Sara, stop it. Please, just come with me."

Her soft lips puckered, like she was holding back a sob. "Tell Wes I love him too…"

"No." I said, my voice rising. "You tell him. Come with me and you tell him."

She looked at me, her eyes wide and confused. "I… you'd let me see him again?"

I almost said 'you're his mother' but I caught myself. "Of course I will. I… You're right, I… I don't know you. …But I want to."

Tears spilled over the edge now, but she made no move to wipe them away. "You… don't hate me?"

_No, I love you_, I didn't say. "No," I said instead, feeling the gaping hole behind the words. But I was so confused—I needed to think and I couldn't think straight until she was safe, at home, with me.

She smiled—actually smiled through her tears—and wrapped her arms around me, hugging me tightly. I was startled, but I wrapped my own arms around her hesitantly, holding her tight to me. She pulled back after a moment, sooner than I would like, and looked up at me. She hesitated, and then pressed a kiss to my lips—quick, soft, and tender, her lips wet with her tears—and then pulled away from me completely.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and turned and walked back to the table to sit across from Samson again.

I sighed, defeated, turning and heading back out to the lobby to tell Brass that plans had changed. We had found her, but she was right, we couldn't force her to come in. What was needed was to assign an undercover officer to follow her… once the killer revealed himself, we'd call the troops back in and catch the bastard before he could hurt her. I reached the lobby, glanced around, found Brass and explained the new plan to him… he called over an officer to keep an eye on her until someone in civilian clothes could arrive to follow her, and I led him and the officer back to where I'd left Sara, so I could point her out. Sure, he'd seen pictures and I could direct him to the restaurant—but this was too important to leave to chance.

When we reached the restaurant, however, the booth was empty. Sara and Samson had both gone.

…Sara and Samson had both gone? Had they gone together, or simply both left just minutes after the confrontation? …Didn't that seem strange?

It hit me the same way my realization that my wife had been replaced by a CSI look alike—fast and hard and painful. Samson was the serial. And that… that was why she hadn't accepted my offer of help. I sprinted from the hotel, pulling out my phone, yelling at Brass to have his officers canvass the area…

But they were gone.


	51. Chapter Fifty

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: CSIfan3408--You got me there. If I didn't want to post again tonight, I shouldn't have named my character Samson. :) Next time, I'll read the rules more carefully.

faeriebabies--I hope your friend isn't angry. :) Read her the story, it'll distract her from the horrible, horrible pain. I wonder what she would have to say to Grissom's 'women' comment a few chapters back...

...As for the droid issue, Jelly, I am so very, very close to doing that. :) But, then again, it was my Christmas present to him... so it might be a little mean to take it away. Hehe.

Enjoy! Review! ...Dance?

* * *

Chapter Fifty:

I sat down as Samson was writing in gratuity. I realized with a cold, distant surprise that he was tipping twenty percent. I almost laughed—serial killers were concerned with supplementing poor wait staff wages. I bit back the laughter because I knew that if I let it out I would either be hysterically laughing or hysterically crying. Neither of which would get us out of here unnoticed. And while I didn't want to die, I had certainly accepted that I had to play by Samson's rules.

Gil walked away, Samson stood, and I numbly followed suit, blessing the halo of messy curls that moved away from me before following Samson out the restaurant's exit directly to the parking lot. He guided me to his vehicle, and allowed me to get in at my own leisure, gently reminding me to buckle up. I was feeling nauseous with all the niceties. But something else was occurring to me—he'd put me into his personal vehicle, hadn't he? I might not be able to save myself, but I could stop the bastard.

I leaned my head back against the seat, slowly, subtly, and rotated it back and forth, hoping I would slough off a few hairs. I rested my arm on the armrest, gripping my fingers around it to give clear impressions. No partials for this girl. He turned off, onto the interstate, and I rested my elbow on the little ledge of the door made by the window, letting my hand fall into my hair. I glanced at him, making certain he was concentrating on driving, and bit my lip before pulling hard—I wanted to make sure they could get DNA from the pieces I'd pulled out.

I waited several minutes, and then lowered my hand and let the hair fall below the seat. Any good CSI should get at least one of them.

I did whatever else I could, to encourage trace—I ran my feet back and forth over the floor mat, I shifted my body, hoping that a piece of my clothing would come off on the seat or some fibers from his seats would come off on my clothes. Anything.

It wasn't long before he turned off at a small gas station. When I glanced at him, he gave me a warm smile. "One of the only gas stations in Vegas that does decent detailing of cars without a security system here or in a nearby building. I'm rather meticulous, you might notice…"

I frowned. The hair and fingerprints had been a better bet than hoping for a random fiber. That thought was lost now. He pulled over, turning his keys over to a man who clearly knew him, though he gave no name… he paid for the detailing and said he'd be back tomorrow or the next day. My heart thudded in my chest—that was how long I had to live. I wondered frantically why this man had never told the authorities that each of the dead girls had come in with this man just before they disappeared…

But he hardly glanced at either of us. His eyes were red, but I didn't know if that meant he was high on something or just really tired. He seemed of less than impressive intelligence, but… if he'd just pay some damn attention! Regardless, I leaned on the counter while Samson counted out his money, betting that if this guy hadn't noticed all the missing girls appearing her then he wasn't likely to wipe down the counters either. I pressed my fingertips to the counter, spelling out SAMSON as quickly as I could, hoping it was even remotely legible.

I knew it was a long shot that they'd even find this gas station… but maybe, if Samson had given this man his real information once upon a time, they could trace where he was getting his car cleaned…

He walked me outside, pulling a separate set of keys from his pocket, to an old jeep that was already parked there. It was nondescript—brown or black, dirty, the cover pulled up but torn in places. I hesitated outside the door, wondering exactly how many girls had gotten into this jeep this way. He cleared his throat, and I stepped inside. He started driving again, and though I watched where we were going, trying to keep track, I still didn't know Vegas well. Instead, I asked him questions. If he was distracted, he would make mistakes. He would leave the evidence that I had been unable to, thus far.

"Were… they all awake?"

He smiled, looking over to me. "I didn't take them all away from where I found them. I killed Karen in the hotel room next to where her boyfriend was."

I swallowed. "They… found her in the parking lot, right? …She... they were driving to San Diego."

He grinned. "That's my Sara—it's not even your case, but you remember each girl intimately."

I grit my teeth. "I'm not yours."

He chuckled. "Do you think that you're Gil's? Has he told you he loves you?"

I swallowed, looking down. Why I didn't just lie to the son of a bitch, I don't know… but I didn't. He laughed. "Exactly. …You _are_ mine, Sara. No one you used to know believes you're alive, and no one in this life knows who you really are. Gil might have fucked you, and Wes might call you Mommy because he's too young to know better… but who in the world loves Sara Sidle?"

He waited while I wiped the tears away, refusing to look at him. When my hands fell back to my lap, he spoke softly. "I do. That's why you're mine, Sara."

I grit my teeth. "Gil might not love me, but you don't either. This… this isn't love, this is control. And maybe a little bit of revenge. Why do you only go after women you knew in foster care? Why were all of them the girls who had no hope—who weren't going to be taken home to mommy and daddy in a month or a year or ten years? It's about dealing with your own shit, whatever it is. You're a psychologist, diagnose yourself! Did you dad rape you like mine did? Is that why you picked me? Or were you beaten regularly? Maybe it was worse than that… maybe you had to protect your mother… or maybe your mother was the aggressor. No other female can live up to her example, but you pick the ones who are as damaged as you are to be your playthings. You pursue sick, twisted encounters, call it love, and then go home and tell rational, normal people what the fuck you think is wrong with their lives?! Fuck you!"

He backhanded me. …It hurt, a lot. I let out a cry before I could stop myself, putting a hand to my face, blinking back the tears that threatened. I wanted it to be nothing—to roll off of me like it used to, when I was used to it, but I couldn't.

There was silence in the jeep for a brief moment, and then he turned to me. "I'm sorry I had to do that, Sara. I didn't want to hurt you."

I didn't answer, and he let the silence sit between us, and then he cleared his throat. "I, uh… I had good parents. They were in a car crash. And then I went into foster care and I… I saw all these beautiful, damaged little girls… I loved them all so much. Wanted to save them from what they'd been through. But you can't erase that kind of trauma—I've learned that the hard way. In fact, often times, people who were abused will abuse their children. …I'm doing you a favor, Sara. I did them all a favor. I'm ending the cycle of violence… putting to rest all those horrible memories and moments. Aren't you grateful that it's just going to be over, my Sara?"

I bit my bottom lip to keep from screaming at him. I didn't want to get hit again. "No. No, I'm not grateful, I'm not yours, and you're not doing me a favor. Kill me if you're going to, but save me the self-righteous bullshit. This is about you, and if it isn't some psychosis you developed as a child, then there's something wrong with your brain. There is not a single part of this that doesn't feed something inside of you… so just… shut the fuck up."

I flinched when his hand rose to the radio, thinking he'd been about to hit me again. He smiled wanly, turned the dial until music came out, and glanced at me again. "I'm sorry that we don't see eye to eye, Sara. I promise, though, it's for the best."

I wasn't going to argue with him about whether his acts of murder were kind-hearted or not. I stared out the window, into the night, wondering where he was taking me… how many hours left of life I had… where he would leave me after he'd killed me and cleaned me. I would have been afraid he'd rape me—but none of the other girls had been, and he'd more or less told me that I wasn't special… I was just one of many. So I was left to wonder the details of the crime itself… and hope that it would be fast, at the very least.

I tried to remember how the other girls had died—strangulation, stabbings, smothering, slitting into vital veins and arteries… no guns, no drug overdoses... He was hands-on.

I closed my eyes, praying for the first time since I was a very small child to the god I had stopped believing in when he'd taken my family away. …I didn't pray for him to save me. I prayed that he would protect the new family he'd given me… and I prayed that I could be strong.


	52. Chapter Fifty One

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: So, forgive the poker metaphor. I did my best, but I had to look up which hands were good and which weren't, so my best might not be very good. Hehe.

MHershey--Droid Rage?! :) That made me so happy. Yes, yes it's droid rage. ...Er, I mean... it made me... crazy with anger and... um, rage?

Jelly--The only thing that could keep me from a happy ending is if Silly actually gets the fetal-pig-in-jar tattoo she claimed she would. ...Then Samson will off Sara and Grissom will have to go fall in love with her instead. :) Excluding that, I have a strict happy ending policy of my own when it comes to GSR.

Also... I've just realized that my abbreviation is 'head,' misspelled. ...I'm not sure if that bothers me or not. ...Makes me think of Capri Sun. :) (...Ew.)

Alright. That's enough fawning over my reviews and reviewers (whom I love!) for one day. Gotta go to class. Have fun with the update!

* * *

Chapter Fifty-One:

"Brass—find a judge. We need warrants for everything—his home, office, car, any records from Nevada or California… If you need to, tell them specifically that I'm asking. Call in any favors you need to. Nick, call the state, tell him we're getting a warrant and we want the records faxed the minute we have it. Warrick—contact the state of California, ask if they have records for a Peter Samson. If they do, same thing, if not… either he never lived there or he changed his name. I'm betting on the latter."

I took a slow moment to breathe, aware even as my heart was pounding that the clock was ticking. But up to this point, Samson didn't know that I knew. The evidence from some of the other girls was that he'd drawn the ordeal out for days. So did I play it safe, and go slow, or take the risk and put out an APB on the guy and hope he didn't hear about it and kill her that much faster? …We'd spoken already. Would he go faster anyway, simply because he figured I would figure it out sooner or later?

I wasn't a gambling man. I mean, I played poker, but that was about math and psychology. Reading the cards and reading your opponents. I took another moment. "Catherine… find me all the public information. The stuff we don't need warrants for—license plate numbers, vehicle type… all of that."

She whisked away, leaving me standing alone for a brief moment. I inhaled and exhaled again. So I wouldn't gamble—I wouldn't pick one or the other for some arbitrary reason. I would read my situation. Statistically speaking, I was better off finding her sooner rather than later—not only in general was the chance on finding a captive alive greater the less time had passed, but there was the chance that he was worried about me. And if I was reading my opponent, psychologically… he was smart, and he was clearly determined. He wouldn't risk losing the chance to kill her in order to do it as slowly as he liked.

He might take a little time, but if I had to say what I thought he was doing—it would be faster than normal. We had the night… maybe the next day… to find her. I glanced at the clock. It was late already… I found Catherine, who was quickly printing and piling information, and I called over to PD, putting out an APB on Samson, his car, and anyone matching that description. We wouldn't broadcast that we were looking for him to the public until tomorrow morning. The city was either sleeping or drinking and gambling—no one would be helpful right now, and it would tip him off.

We would ask for help from the citizens once I believed they could actually help.

Brass returned, and we faxed warrants to the state of Nevada the state of California. I sent Catherine with officers to his office, Warrick with officers to his home. The phone rang.

The state of California was faxing what little information they had on him—but the woman thought she'd call and tell me right away the most significant detail—he'd changed his name when he was eighteen. He used to be Cameron Engel. She was sending over Cameron's state records too. I thanked her repeatedly, and hung up too quickly.

"Brass—we need another warrant. We need the foster child records of Cameron Engel."

"How do you know he was in foster care?" Nick asked, frowning.

I shook my head. "I don't. Nick, California's Child Services—tell them we'll have a warrant in fifteen minutes and they need to be ready with the file. It's life and death."

He nodded, hurrying from the room, and I paced back and forth, frantic. Why hadn't I… I don't know, done anything but walk away… walk out of sight? I would have figured it out if they'd walked away together… I'd have had time. I could have followed them myself. …I could have jumped on the bastard and killed him with my own two hands for even thinking…

"Gil?"

I jumped. My mother was behind me, holding Wesley's hand, looking tired. I sighed. "I'm sorry Mom, I—"

She kept speaking, even though I was now facing her, because she was holding on to Wes. "No, don't be sorry. …The officers are taking us to a hotel room. I just wanted to let you know we were going."

"Okay… I…" I stopped, because she'd told me not to apologize. I looked at Wesley. "Hey bud… You look tired."

He did—he looked exhausted. His eyes were red, his lips puckered in a pout, his curls tousled. He pulled free from my mother's hand, running over to me. I scooped him up, hugging him tightly. "Oh, Wes… Daddy loves you so much. Can I have a smooch before you go with Grandma?"

He puckered his lips and kissed me, but his hands gripped my shirt as I went to set him down. "Mommy?"

I sighed. I had been hoping to put this off until I could figure some things out… How did I explain that Mommy was gone, when there was the woman he'd known as Mommy for months hopefully coming back home to us. I kissed his brow. "Daddy's gonna go find Mommy."

He hugged me again. "Love 'ou!" I felt tears brim.

I nodded, blinking them back. "I love you too, Wes. And Mommy loves you too. You'll see her really soon… I promise."

I set him down and he moved back over to my mother, taking her hand when she offered it. I met my mother's eyes again and she smiled. "She loves you, Gil. That's the worst thing she's done—she lied because she loved you."

She pulled Wesley out, his little fist waving buh-bye and I hardly had a minute to think before Nick came in. "There's several properties in Vegas under the name Laurie Engel—his deceased mother. Technically, Samson owns them."

I leapt to my feet. "You've got the addresses?" He waved a sheet of paper with a smile and I felt hope spring to life in my chest again. "I'm gonna contact PD. We'll—" My phone rang—Catherine. I turned to Nick—he would need to make the call instead. "Get officers at each address; have them call for swat backup if they find anything. I'm gonna take this." I turned my back to him, opening the phone as his footsteps carried him away.

"Grissom."

"Samson's got an entire file cabinet full of audio tapes—from the set up, I'd say he's been bugging about twenty women… there's still recordings presently taking place."

"We have proof. Good." An idea struck me, just as I was about to tell her to keep looking and hang up so I could be ready to go when we found a location. "Wait—are they all of the women's homes?"

"I… guess I'm not sure. There's a lot to go through."

"Look for tapes that seem different than the others. Or—tapes from the dates the other girls were murdered."

Nick rushed back into the room as she murmured to herself—I could see her, in my mind's eye, shuffling through tapes without photographing them. It wasn't protocol, but we didn't have time. I glanced at him.

"They're on their way—did you want to tag along?"

I shook my head minutely. "Pull a car around, listen to the scanner. Call as soon as they have a location and I'll be do—"

I cut myself off, because Catherine was now talking. "Oh… maybe this is it. Here…" I could hear her fumbling to play a tape while Nick whisked from the room and my phone beeped—I looked at it. Warrick.

"Catherine, hang on one second." I flipped lines. "Grissom."

"I haven't processed the house fully, but no one's here and there's nothing obvious. Did you want me to finish or…"

"Call in swing shift to take over. Samson's got a bunch of Vegas addresses—we have officers checking them out. Once someone radios in that their clear, head over to look for anything probative. We're looking for anything that will help us find her tonight—little things can wait to be processed once we have her."

"Got it." He hung up, and I flipped back over—to the sound of a woman screaming.

"Catherine?!" I started to panic, to call officers to head over to Samson's office, but she answered me.

"Oh! God, Gil, you scared me."

"What is that?"

"…Rachel's murder. He… he records their deaths."

I winced. "Look at the ones coming in right now—do they tell you anything?"

She huffed. "I don't know, Gil. Send Archie over here to help me… I'm afraid I'm going to destroy the tapes if I touch anything…"

God damn it! He could be recording himself right now! Giving information about where he was taking her, if she was alive, and we couldn't get it for fear we'd destroy our only chance of finding her… I groaned out loud. "I'll have a uniform get him over there in ten minutes. We need to find what he's recording of him and Sara, right now." I was already running down the halls, grabbing an officer on the way. "Archie, you're going with…" I glanced at him. "Officer Mitchell… to Catherine's crime scene. She needs some technological help. Wear gloves."

I walked away from the pair who both looked bewildered but who were now hurrying towards the door. "Once we know what he's doing, Cath, I'm gonna broadcast that he's wanted by LVPD. Maybe we can make him hesitate—go somewhere he isn't comfortable and we can ambush him…"

There was a brief silence on the other end. "What if he panics and kills her that much quicker?"

I swallowed. "He's not restraining her—she's there because she believes we can't hold him and he'll come after Wes and I once he's free. …So anything he hears, she probably will as well. And if we say we have evidence linking him to all the serials… maybe she'll fight back."

"That's an awfully big risk…"

I frowned, but I felt in my gut like it wasn't. I wasn't gambling, I was reading him…and her. Samson hadn't been so brilliant—he'd bluffed his way through this, and so far, it had worked. If I called his bluff… I knew his plan would fall apart, and Sara would fight him back… I knew that.

But I didn't know how he'd react under pressure. Fold, or up the ante? He might have been bluffing about his Royal Flush… but I'd seen poker games wrecked by guys holding a pair. And he had something—he had Sara, and he had no hesitation about murder…

I hung up without another word to Catherine, hurrying down to Nick even though we had nowhere to go. Until Archie could give us something… or until the units I'd sent to his various properties could get word back…

There was nothing I could do but wait.


	53. Chapter Fifty Two

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Probably the last for today. :) Don't worry, we're almost to some more exciting stuff.

Thanks for all the reviews! Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Two:

I sighed, frustrated. "Where are we going?"

He smiled. "I've had to get creative. Gil's a rather brilliant criminalist, although he failed to figure me out. I can't go anywhere they'll associate with me. ...Under either name. Luckily, I come from a family that hates paperwork. My maternal grandmother also owned some property in Vegas… my mother never transferred it into her name, and I never transferred it into mine—there's no way he can trace it to me… which means we can take our time with this. Did you have any particular way you wanted to die?"

At my silence, he frowned. "No? Here I thought it was rather generous of me to give you a choice. I didn't offer the others a choice… although, the others were not nearly so interesting as you have proven to be, Sara. And none of them came so willingly. …I should always, always threaten loved ones. It's far easier, and certainly more effective than drugs or fighting them off…"

"You're disgusting."

"You say that because you think I'm one of your petty criminals. Unfortunately, the law makes no distinctions between killing as an act of mercy and killing as murder."

I rolled my eyes. "This isn't euthanasia. You're not an angel of mercy. I'm not dying and my life was—"

"A mess. Your life was a mess, Sara. You lost everything, and you were pretending to be the wife of a man you were in love with but you hated you as his wife and didn't know you as a person."

"What was your excuse for stalking me before Vegas then? I had just gotten my masters degree. I'd gone to two of the best schools in the country and been at the top of my classes. I was about to be hired at the number two lab in the country, until one of the most brilliant men I've ever met. And even if he never would have left Debbie for me, we… we think alike. We're… kindred spirits. He would have been everything to me."

"Yes, that is a positive situation to be in. Hopelessly in love with a man who may or may not love you but who'll never touch you and never leave the wife he hates for you. How much better for you…"

"It's better than dying!"

He rolled his eyes, and turned the radio up once more and I huffed, leaning back in my seat. I didn't know why I was arguing with a crazy killer about the logic of taking my life or letting me live. Calmly riding to your own death will do that to you, I guess. He sighed.

"I've gotta pull over for some gas—I wasn't expecting to have to drive so far so I didn't fill the jeep up fresh for this. Ah, all but the best laid plans, no?"

I scowled. "Robert Burns is rolling over in his grave."

He smiled blandly and pulled off the main road, pulling into a small gas station. "Stay here." He directed, knowing that I wouldn't disagree. I glanced through the windows though—this gas station did have surveillance though. If he used his credit card… if they could trace him here…

I needed to leave something else behind.

_______

"Alright," I said, as their conversation lulled. Catherine was sitting close to the speaker in his office so I could hear the recording as it came in. He had just turned the radio up, effectively stopping her from arguing with him. "He's not going to any of the places we were expecting. Nick," I turned to the man at my side. We were back in the lab, but not for long. "Check birth and death records—the mother of Laurie Engel. We need to find the property she owns in Vegas. Call Brass when you know it, he'll get the warrant while we drive."

There was a long pause—the radio was loud in the speaker. I made a decision. "We know where he's going—but they've been driving a long time. We're not going to beat them there… we need to buy time, which means Sara needs to know she can fight back. Which radio station is this?"

Warrick responded immediately from the conference call, spewing off a catchy series of numbers and letters for the radio's name.

"Good. You hang up and call them, say the LVPD needs to make an announcement for the missing person from today. We… we need it to say that… we're looking for Peter Samson as we have evidence linking him to the serial murders and he's wanted for questioning. Describe his car, give the license plate…"

Warrick hung up, and Samson spoke up. "I've gotta pull over for some gas—I wasn't expecting to have to drive so far so I didn't fill the jeep up fresh for this. Ah, all but the best laid plans, no?"

I could see Sara scowling in my mind's eye. "Robert Burns is rolling over in his grave."

I almost chuckled. God I missed her. And from the sound of her anger, she wasn't hurt… but she wasn't happy. I picked up the land line beside me, calling Warrick with one ear, not wanting to miss a moment of their conversation. It was quiet—but the highway noise quieted. He'd pulled off onto a side road.

"Brown."

"You got the radio people on the line?"

"Yeah, I had to put them on hold… What—"

"I want to talk. Give me the number, and then tell them I'm calling, and they need to put me on the air when I ask them to, but not a minute sooner."

"Griss, they're already talking about needing more time and information."

"Give me the number and tell them I'm calling."

He rattled off the number and flipped back over. I gave it thirty five seconds, and then dialed—by the bossy tone of voice, I assumed it was a manager who answered me. …Still quiet with Samson and Sara, but I was certain I didn't have long.

"Hello?"

"Hi. This is Gil Grissom with the crime lab—my CSI tells me you're hesitant. Let me make this clear—I've got thirty, maybe forty seconds to convince you to cooperate. We've got our serial killer bugged—and we need to get a message to his hostage. They happen to be listening to your station. Put me on."

"Sir—"

"The Crime Lab will sponsor the next three local concerts you want to host or whatever it is that radio stations do. It needs to happen now."

"… Tell me when to put you on the air."

"Thank you."

I pressed the phone with Catherine on it to my other ear—listening intently.

___________

I anxiously tapped my feet while he was outside, filling the gas. The radio was grating on my nerves, and I almost turned it off, but I figured that would make him mad. And as I was already thinking of things that would make him mad, I figured I shouldn't push it. I breathed a sigh of relief when he'd replaced the gas pump and headed inside. I opened my door, sticking my hand out into space, my eyes on him as he waited patiently in line, not even glancing at me. And I signed, frantically, spelling because I didn't do enough to do better than that.

S-O-S.

S-A-R-A-S-I-D-L-E.

S-A-M-S-O-N.

S-E-R-I-A-L.

I jumped nearly a foot when I heard Gil's voice coming softly around me. It took a minute before I realized he was on the radio. I closed my door softly, listening hard.

"The Las Vegas Crime Lab is requesting help from the citizens of Las Vegas is locating and apprehending one Peter Samson. We have evidence linking him to the serial murders than have ravaged the city for months and he is wanted for questioning. His vehicle is a maroon Toyota Camry, license plate number UVT 480."

Evidence! They had evidence! He paused briefly, and I leaned forward in my seat, feeling like this was important. He was taking great care with his words. "If anyone knows of his whereabouts, contact the crime lab. …We can _hear_ you. Any _information_ is helpful. There is a missing woman at risk here, but… the crime lab is _fighting back_, with your help. Thank you."

The radio DJ listed off the hotline number to call and I struggled desperately to control my breathing. Because Samson was opening the door and it took everything in me not to shout the name of the gas station. Gil was so amazing—so brilliant—so cunning. The arrogant asshole who thought they'd never find anything on him had been wrong—they'd obviously found whatever he'd used to bug my house… and the jeep must be bugged as well. That, or Samson himself.

Either way, they could hear me, and I could help them find me… they were going to save me.

I was overwhelmed with the rush of adrenaline coursing through my system at the realization. I wasn't going to die. At least—not if I could help it.

It was with great effort that I regulated my breathing, keeping myself calm enough to fool the psychologist. I tried to sound… nonchalant. "Full tank of gas. Should I take a nap so I don't sleep through the fun parts?" I trip to spit the last part with anger, like I had previously.

He turned a curious gaze on me. "You seem strange, Sara."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm just sick of your mind games."

He smiled. "You're baiting me. …Are we starting to go through the stages of grief, Sara? …I missed the denial part, but maybe that was internal… You're angry."

I scoffed and crossed my arms, causing him to chuckle. ...I had managed to not arouse his suspicions, but I hadn't gotten any information either.

…This was going to be harder than I thought.


	54. Chapter Fifty Three

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: What you've all been waiting for. :) Sorry it's so late.

Also, if you see a word that doesn't make sense, try adding a 'd' to it--my key in sticking. It was driving me crazy while writing this.

For those who were confused, the good guys didn't manage to bug his jeep--he bugged it himself, because he likes to listen after the fact. They used his equiptment against him. Yay Archie!

Jelly--I honestly tried to think of appropriate show tunes. "There's a bright golden haze on the meadow"? "Get me to the church on time"? Yeah. Those were the best I had. Sorry. :(

whistlingawaythedark--Even I didn't notice the jeep thing. So we'll say Grissom was so frantic with love and worry that he missed. He's very stressed... even master CSIs (and smut writers) make mistakes. Hehe.

...So enjoy! And... don't be mad at me. :)

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Three:

Ten minutes past the gas station, he turned off the side road he'd been on, onto a gravel road. I could hear the tiny rocks pinging and rattling as the tires kicked them up. I bit my bottom lip.

"Why are we turning off?"

He glanced at me out of the side of his eyes. "Are you getting scared, Sara?"

I decided to play up the panic idea. I let my voice waver, let my eyes take on a wild look I remembered the feel of well from my childhood. "You… you said it was a long drive! You… you have a full tank of gas, but we… we can't be more than ten miles past the gas station! Why are we turning off?"

The grin he gave at the fear in my words was almost lustful. "Don't lose your nerve on me now, Sara. You've been the bravest of them all up to this point." His words were calming, but it was a contradiction—he really didn't want me to calm down. He liked the fear.

"I… Just tell me… how long I have left."

His smile softened, but he didn't try to rile me up again. Probably figured he'd save that until we were safely out of the jeep. …Hey—that was a thought. If I ran the bastard off the road, it'd put him out of commission until they could find us. …Maybe. ... Okay, it's a dumb idea. …I just can't sit here and not plan… but I don't know what's coming, so I can't plan around the new environment. "About fifteen minutes until we get there, but… I don't plan on making this fast, Sara. You have fifteen minutes until you need to be afraid—but you don't need to fear for your life for at least a day. …I suppose it's cruel not to offer you the chance of a few last words. After all, you had your last meal…"

He laughed like this was very clever. I rolled my eyes, looking out the window. After a brief moment or so of silence, he glanced at me.

"Go on. What would your last words be, if this moment were you last? …Chances are you won't be thinking clearly when the time comes."

I grit my teeth. I wanted to say how much I loved Gil and Wes—but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction either. He chuckled again, finally pulling off the road and onto a path that was not even a road. "Is this a driveway?"

"A long one…"

It took a full minute and a half before the house even came into sight, in part because it was dark outside, and in part because the house itself was a light brown—bleached from the sun and melting into the surrounding rock behind it. I took in the sight of my surroundings—we were far out in the dessert, although I was fairly certain I knew which way we'd come from, if I ended up running. …I thought about that option, briefly, as well. But he had a car, and if he wanted to he could just run me down. No, until I got back up… I was better off cooperating.

To a point.

"Well… Let's go." He smiled cheerily and removed the keys, sliding out the door and walking around to my side. As soon as his door had slammed, I was speaking.

"I'm in the desert. Ten minute drive south from a Stop and Go off the interstate, west of the strip. Turn right onto an unmarked gravel road. Fifteen minute drive and another right onto an unmarked dirt path—more than a minute up the drive until you see an old, abandoned looking house—"

My door swung open and I slid out compliantly. I could only hope they'd gotten that… and that they were coming for me. Because chances were he hadn't bugged the house… he hadn't expected to run into Gil in the restaurant, so he'd expected to take me somewhere else. …Probably where some of the other girls had been taken. I jumped when he closed the deep door behind me with a slam.

He gripped my elbow loosely, as though frightened I would run, and guided me up stairs that creaked and through the door that was not locked. He didn't bring anything in from his jeep. …Would he have what he needed to kill me here? Would it be a weapon of opportunity—those always seemed so much more gruesome. He closed the door behind us, locked it tightly, and flicked a light switch. I was surprised there was still functioning electricity in the house.

It was large, the furniture elegant but old and worn and dusty. I looked at Samson. "When you said you were going to make it last over a day… I was expecting… something worse."

He smiled. "Like a torture chamber? …It's in the basement. Do you need to use the bathroom before we head down? We'll be down there a while and the smell can be quite awful if bowels are voided early…"

I gagged and had to choke it back down. The fact that he knew that—the casual calm with which he spoke such words. I ran in the direction he pointed me, vomiting into the toilet several times. He hovered in the doorway, his nose wrinkled. He disappeared for a moment and I flushed the toilet, pressing my face to the cool tile of the shower wall beside me. It wasn't all that clean, but I trusted it more than cool water from the faucet. He appeared again, setting a bottle of water on the counter.

"I'll give you a minute… don't be long."

He even closed the door. I glanced frantically at it for a moment, looking for even a simple lock. Just something to put between him and I, to buy some time… but the knob didn't have one. It looked like it had been replaced—it was newer than the rest of the house. And the basement …I wasn't the first one he'd brought here.

Had he killed more than the girls we knew about? This seemed like someone who'd been violent for years—he'd perfected the art.

I sighed, going to the bathroom quickly, hovering above the disgusting seat. I didn't want to do things his way, but the idea of being rescued by Gil after having 'voided my bowels' was mortifying. And I was going to be rescued. I just needed to buy time. They would find me.

…I should try to keep him out of the torture chamber for as long as possible—even if it meant a fight right away. Who knew what he had down there—if he heard sirens, he might be able to flip a switch and kill me then and there. I drew a deep breath, looking at my reflection in the dirty mirror, the dim, yellow lighting washing me out and making my skin look sallow. I sighed—it was such a silly thing, just now, to worry about my face… but I would have felt so much more confident if I'd seen Sara staring back at me.

Sara could survive anything—Sara's face had survived worse than this. Debbie's face hadn't ever imagined anything like this. Debbie's face was scared. …I was so scared.

I grit my teeth, carefully put the mask in place—and though it simply made Debbie look irritated whereas it had made Sara look strong and fearless—it was better than the fear. I swallowed, and took one more minute to go over everything I'd learned in my weaponless defense class. I took a drink of water, and then, glancing at the door, I quickly opened the cabinets. They were bare. …Nothing.

I didn't know what I'd been expecting to find, but anything would have been better than the barren shelves.

I turned, straightened my shoulders, and opened the door, walking out into the hallway. He was down the hall—I could hear his feet pacing, the sound somewhat muffled by dust on the floor. I moved slowly over to him, wondering if I could keep him talking—I'd killed five minutes, maybe ten in the bathroom. Gil should be here any minute.

He turned to me when I entered the room at the front of the house—a living room. He smiled. "Sara. Are you ready?"

I swallowed. "No. …How many people have you killed?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "I lost count." Liar—his eyes said he remembered each kill in detail. "Sara—are you forgetting the terms of our agreement? Compliance or I'll kill Gil and Wes."

"I'm here, aren't I? How many woman have been in this house against their will?" I shot both questions at him quickly, not giving him time. His eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly. I widened my stance, clenching my fists nervously. He laughed.

"Oh, Sara—you can't be planning on fighting me?" He laughed again. "Honey—this is hopeless. I realize it isn't really your fault. It's human nature to fight for life even when death is more appealing, but let's be clear—you have no choice. They can't convict me—so I will be free to find them."

"You will never touch my family."

He frowned. "They're not your family, Sara. They're strangers who you tricked, an even then they couldn't love you."

I grit my teeth. "Wes loves me."

"Wes is seriously screwed up because he doesn't know if he loves you or not."

"Don't talk about my son."

He huffed. "Enough. We're going downstairs. _Now._"

"No."

He came towards me and stopped when I didn't take a step backwards at his advance. He frowned. "Why have you changed? Why don't you care about Gil and Wes?"

"I'm not going to happily be led to my death."

"Even for them?"

I hesitated, and he stepped forward aggressively, as if saying 'ah-ha!' "I knew it! You love too deeply, Sara… it's a fault. There's no way you would choose your own life over theirs. So, I repeat, what has changed? You can't possibly think you'll beat me…"

"I've lived through worse."

"…Is that what this is? Sara Sidle's a fighter and she has to go down fighting? Even when I threaten the two people you love more than life itself?"

I didn't respond—I simply braced myself. When I didn't answer, he sighed as if deeply irritated, and moved right up to me, grasping my wrists quickly, one in each hand. I twisted them, applying pressure to the thumb—the weak point of the grip—and they flew out. I pushed him backwards, hard, and he stumbled backwards… although it seemed more like it was out of surprise than anything else.

He looked angry now. For the first time… he looked full on crazy. No hiding behind pleasantries and politeness and arrogance. His voice was low… soft. "Are you testing me, Sara? Because so far I've been very gentle with you… it isn't in my nature to be violent." I snorted at that and he scowled. "If you push me… I will find your 'family,' and I will keep Wesley very much alive while I torture him. I think I'll have him watch Daddy take a beating… but Gil will have to wait to meet his end. He'll watch me peel his little boy's skin from his body while Wesley watches and screams. He'll have to know that it's his fault—he didn't save those girls, he didn't save you, and he won't save Wesley… and then I will slice the man from collar bone to pubic bone…autopsy him alive. Feel his heart pumping in my hand as the light leaves his eyes…"

I was biting the inside of my cheek. His words were horrible, and I was seeing everything in my mind… hearing their screams… but I couldn't indulge it, or my desire to hide from it. I needed to keep my wits about me. He was trying to make me lash out… make a mistake. My palms were sweaty and I flexed my fingers slowly.

He lunged at me, and this time he was more effective—I took a fist to the stomach before I could react, and it knocked the wind from me, dropping me to my knees. He backed off, letting me struggle for breath for a moment. "Are you ready to give up Sara? Come now, you're ruining all my fun."

I scrambled to my feet, my breathing harsh, but I faced him again, chin up, feet apart, shoulders braced. He rolled his eyes. "Seriously Sara—is your pride so strong that you can't let this go, even for their sakes? I would expect this behavior of you if you thought you were going to be rescu—" His eyes got wide and his mouth became an angry gash.

"What did you do?!" He ran at me again, this time aiming his fist at my face. I caught his wrist, needing to use both hands to divert it sideways—he used his left fist against the side of my head instead, and then the room was spinning. "You stupid bitch! They had nothing! I could have killed all three of you!" He grabbed me, turning me back around to face him, and backhanded me again. "I could have and instead, I gave you the choice. You ungrateful little whore!" I took another punch to the stomach, and he let me fall.

I scrambled up again, despite his aims to kick me when he realized I wasn't done, and I grasped the first thing I could find—a pillow. Shit. I threw it at him anyway, and he laughed, walking slowly towards me as I moved away from him, putting the musty old couch between us. We did the back and forth game, and then he simply climbed up and over the couch. I backed away, hitting the wall and reaching out a second time—the lamp shade came first and I threw it, like the pillow, anyway. It gave me just enough time to lift the lamp and swing it at him.

He turned away from it, and I hit his shoulder rather than the side of his head. He threw it from my hands and pinned me against the wall, his breath ragged. "Oh, Sara… I'm going to make you suffer…"

I lifted my knee as hard as I could, hitting him squarely between the legs and causing him to immediately let go and fall to the floor. I scrambled away, so that I wouldn't be cornered if and when he got up again—because I was still alone in the middle of the desert, and he had the keys to the jeep. I looked around for another weapon, and grasped another lamp—my first one's twin. I ripped off the shade and held it upside down, my fist above the light bulb, the heavy base up in the air, ready to strike.

He wasn't moving… a kick to the groin couldn't kill a man, could it? I watched him warily—I didn't want to fall for a trick. I didn't really care if he died—but I didn't want to be the one who killed him either. Before I'd gotten mixed up in this whole crazy affair, I hadn't thought I could ever take a life. …Not even my father's, like my mother had. In the moment, however, I knew I was capable of it—I just wouldn't prefer it.

I forgave my mother, then and there.

A siren pealed through the distance, and foolishly I turned to it, hopeful and desperate—and then he had tackled me. I managed to hang on to the lamp and swung the marble post that was its base blindly, making firm contact several times. There was blood spatter—around us, on the walls, falling on me, but he wouldn't stop. He somehow managed to wrestle the lamp from my grip, and then he was holding a pillow over my face. It smelled musty and gross and it was filling my lungs because there was nothing else—he was smothering me.

But Gil was coming. Gil was on his way—the sirens had told me so. I just had to hang on.

I kicked, I flailed my arms. I hit and scratched and tried to roll from where he straddled me, pinning me down, his weight on my chest speeding the process. I was beginning to see black spots blooming in front of his face, but the sirens were closer now. They were so close… so… close…

I couldn't see anymore, couldn't fight anymore. I felt the fight drain out of me, and thought only of Gil and Wes as everything around me faded. It was okay, that I died—because they caught him, and he couldn't hurt anyone anymore… and Gil had wanted to save me. He might not love me, but he didn't hate me… so it was okay.

I died happy.


	55. Chapter Fifty Four

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Oh, you spoiled, spoiled readers, you. What's the point of a cliffhanger if I never leave you hanging...?

Also, I use some CPR terms in here that may or may not be accurate. Namely, "Respiratory Pump." Because the google machine tells me that this is something else, not the little handheld pumpy bag thing they use in CPR... but the google machine won't tell me what it IS called. So you get it as is. Forgive me. :)

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Four:

The address wasn't an address—it was the middle of fucking nowhere. We had a vague idea of where it was located… but the roads to get there… it would be a guessing game. We didn't have the time to guess, but we also didn't have the time to keep thinking about it. Nick and I piled in behind a troop of squad cars, sirens blaring, an ambulance behind us and Catherine and Warrick en route, Archie waiting in Samson's office with a uniform, on the phone with me.

They stopped, I heard a car door, and then Sara gave directions—as we were passing the Stop and Go. I screamed at Nick to turn and he laid on the horn when he did—the squad cars behind us followed suit—others did U-turns or reversed right there on the interstate. I directed him—right onto the gravel… the fifteen minute drive took us six. I'm certain half the squad cars following us cracked windshields from the rocks being spit up—and then we were turning again… there were lights on now, and the house was visible seconds after taking the turn… just over the crest of a hill.

Belatedly, I realized our sirens were still on—but it was too late to turn them off now. I ordered Nick to go faster instead. Samson will have heard them… but Sara needed to keep hearing them. She needed to know to keep fighting. She needed to know we were coming for her.

Nick skidded as he hid the brakes and I was already running out of the car, the spray of rocks pelting the ground as my own feet found it. I could distantly recognize Brass yelling at me to wait, and then ordering officers after me when I didn't yield. I pulled my service weapon, cocked it, and flew up the stairs, kicking the door open. Samson straddled her, crushing her like the mythical hag, a pillow pressed to her face… but I could tell by the limpness of her limbs that she'd already stopped breathing. For how long was another story…

It took only a second—one long, vulnerable second of standing in the doorway—to realize he wasn't armed. He didn't even seem like he was going to run. He looked up at me and he laughed.

I raised the gun and shot three rounds into his chest, and he slumped backwards and off of her almost comically, the way the bad guys fall off horses when they're shot in old westerns. I dropped the gun and ran to Sara, my sweet, strong, beautiful Sara. The pillow had fallen from her face, and I could already see the bruises forming on her delicate cheeks. I bent down, taking her pulse and listening for air—an when I found evidence of neither, I began CPR.

I pumped her thin chest, pushing blood through her veins, forcing her to stay with me. Because I'd never had a chance to love her—not really. Not just as herself. She couldn't leave me. My cheeks were wet as I pressed my own mouth to hers, lamenting that this contact was a desperate hope to save her rather than a kiss of reunion and of promises for the future. I pushed my own air into her lungs and went back to doing chest compressions, realizing only now that the EMTs should be here by now. I glanced around, never stopping my efforts.

"Where's the ambulance?!"

Nick was in the doorway, several other officers in the room. One was doing CPR on Samson, but it wouldn't save him like it would save my Sara. I had shot to kill, and I was an excellent shot. When none of the others volunteered the information, Nick cleared his throat. "They went down an exit… Brass is on the phone with them now… directing them."

"Fuck." I swore, going back to breath for her, wondering if it were my imagination or if her lips were turning blue. …Wondering if I would ever see them knowingly smirk at me in a way that had become a much awaited joy and curiosity. Wondering if I would kiss them again, or hear them speak my name.

I started chest compressions—the officer beside me had given up on Samson, but that was little concern. This woman meant everything to me—she was my entire world. I hadn't realized that now until I'd lost her—Wes and I, we'd both be lost without her. I heard the sirens clearly—the entire room was silent, twenty officers crammed in, not clearing the scene, not checking for other intruders… just watching me desperately force the life back into her.

EMTs forced their way through, pulling out a defibrillator and pushing me almost roughly aside. A sob bubbled up from my throat and it shook my entire frame.

"Ready." One said.

"Clear!"

Said the other. Her body jerked in response and I waited, desperately, for any telltale sign that it had worked correctly.

Nothing.

"Ready."

"Clear!"

She jerked again, her arms still limp and lifeless. Another sob slipped from my lips and when I gasped at air after it had, I realized I hadn't been breathing. I felt vaguely lightheaded.

"Ready."

"Clear!"

Nothing.

"Time?" the first one said, and I was scrambling back over to them.

"No! No! No time of death! Do it again!"

"Sir—"

"Do it again! …Now!"

"…Ready."

"Clear!"

Nothing.

The first one glanced at me, eyes anxious. "…Ready."

"Clear!"

"She's got a pulse! …It's weak but it's there."

The second one dropped the paddles, quickly putting a respiratory pump to her mouth and breathing for her. "…Let's get ready to transport."

I sat back on my heels, sighing and crying harder and positively shaking. "I'm…" I wiped stubbornly at my eyes. "I'm going with her…"

The EMT surrendered the pump to me and they moved her quickly to a stretcher before he took over again. They wheeled her out and I followed numbly behind. Belatedly, I turned for my gun—I shouldn't leave a weapon registered to me unattended. But Brass stepped between me and it.

"I'll let IA take care of this, okay? You just go…"

Nick stepped up to Brass. "I need to give a statement to them, Jim. I was the only one in sight when Grissom shot—Sara's arms were still moving a little. He did it to save her life."

I met Nick's eyes, almost frantic. When you spoke to IA, it was tantamount to speaking under oath. He was committing perjury, for me. But his gaze was steady—he looked unconcerned. I looked back at Jim, who looked like he wasn't certain, but had a fairly good guess what had taken place. He nodded at me.

"I'll direct Nick to IA. We'll get this straightened out… Go be with her."

I nodded once, clasping Nick's arm once, and ran out after the stretcher, past a confused Catherine and Warrick, and jumped into the ambulance, closing the door behind me. I was panting, still frantic, and realized a little belatedly that I had blood on me. I looked at the paramedic.

"Is she bleeding?!"

He shook his head. "No—it was the other guy. She's covered in it… he had some pretty nasty-looking head wounds. …She's a fighter."

I nodded, reaching out and taking her hand. "Yes, she is."

I looked back at him, and he knew the question without the words. "I think she's going to be fine… she's breathing on her own now… pulse is still weak, but steady."

I closed my eyes in relief, wishing I could feel the weight fall off my shoulders… but it didn't.

Despite what Nick might say, she hadn't been moving when I entered. There was no way to know if my CPR had managed to prevent terrible brain damage… and a myriad of other things that could go wrong when the body is deprived of oxygen. And Sara—Sara had a brilliant mind. …I would never forgive myself if she lost it, because I hadn't been fast enough… because I hadn't managed to figure it out before he could lay a hand on her.

She was whisked away from me in the hospital, and I was left, blood-soaked and dirty and exhausted and distraught, sitting in the waiting room, earning stares from my fellow waiters.

Catherine was a lifesaver. She brought me a change of clothes from my locker when she came to collect my clothing as evidence. She followed me in to an empty men's room and turned away while I peeled the clothing from my body and then proceeded to wash as best I could with a small sink and paper towels. She bagged and tagged everything, and hugged me when I was fully dressed, telling me she had to get back—but that she wished us the best.

And I returned to the waiting room… waiting. When they had her stable and bandaged, they moved her to a private room and directed me up to it… but when I reached the floor, I was stopped in her doorway by a nurse.

"No visitors right now… she's very frail. If you're not family…"

"I am family. …She's my wife."


	56. Chapter Fifty Five

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: :) The next time I need any information, I will ask my medically-aware readers. Way better than the google machine!

Also, several people have asked that I not end it too quickly--which is a bit of a fault of mine. So I'm going to try my best... but we are nearing the end, ish. Just so you know. :)

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Five:

I was… warm, and sleepy. So very sleepy. …I could hear… movement. And… beeping. I opened my eyes, but everything was dark. So dark. …No, wait, my eyes weren't open… I tried again. ...Nothing.

Oh god. ...The beeping was a heart monitor. I'm in the hospital. I'm in the hospital and I can't open my eyes. Samson hadn't hurt my face… Samson had killed me. No, the last time I'd been in a hospital without the use of my eyes…

It had all been a dream. I was just waking up from the plane crash… and none of it had been real.

I almost started crying—not that I would have preferred death, but because the dream had felt so real… so personal and close and… and Gil had been amazing. I couldn't imagine going through life from now on knowing that all those moments… his smiles, his kisses, the nights we shared… weren't real. What if the real Gil Grissom wasn't half as kind… half as gentle and loving? What if he were a man who deserved a wife like Debbie? What if—

"Sara?" I tensed. My mind must be playing tricks on me. That voice had sounded like… "Sara, honey, are you awake? …Open your eyes."

I wanted to say that I couldn't—but moving my mouth to speak seemed just as difficult as opening my eyes. So instead I focused on the eyes… pushing them open with effort. The light in the room was dim, but it still burned my eyes and I let them slide closed again. I heard him chuckle and the sound of a light flickering off. I opened my eyes again—the only light in the room was through the door from the hallway and the distant lights of the strip out the window. It was nighttime in Vegas.

He smiled. "Hi… I'm so happy you're awake. …Do… you remember what happened?"

I wasn't so confident that I did remember, although this new reality seemed to be lining up with what I knew so far. "Samson?" I muttered, my voice scratchy and thick.

"He's dead," he murmured softly, and I felt every muscle in my body loosen. I lifted my eyes back to his face. "I… shot him, three times…" His hand moved to his chest, and I wasn't certain if this was supposed to communicate feeling or simply where his bullets had hit the bastard.

I drew in breath, swallowing before speaking. It seemed to help a little. "Will there be… an investigation?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but…" He glanced at his feet and then back at the door, before looking back to me. "Nick… said that you were still moving, when we got in there. It… it looks like it's going to blow over."

My eyes softened. "…Was I?"

He frowned, glancing at the door again. "…No."

My eyes crinkled and I nodded. I waited the space of a breath. "Wes?"

He smiled. "He's safe with my mother. …He misses you."

I blinked a few times, feeling tears prick the backs of my eyes. I had so many questions… but I didn't know how to ask them. I remembered dying; what had happened? Where did we go from here? How badly was I hurt? What had they found out about Samson in processing his home? I took a minute to examine my surroundings—to really think about this situation.

Gil looked… tired. He wasn't clean shaven, like normal… his clothes were wrinkled, his curls tousled. He had bags under his eyes. I frowned—how long had I been out? Had he even been home? He took my left hand in his left and letting his right cup my face, his right thumb running along my cheek bone.

"…I thought I'd lost you."

I drew in a deep breath. "You aren't… mad?"

He smiled. "No. …I, uh…" He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sure I would have been… if I'd found out before you decided to go sacrifice yourself for a serial killer." I managed a smile and he chuckled—the sound was strange though… like relief was hiding behind the humor. "But… I'm just so glad we found you. …I'm so glad you're safe."

I put a fist to my chest, moving it in a circular motion. _Sorry._

He smiled. "It's okay… I know why you did it."

…I didn't know how to ask what we were now. He'd never been like this with me—gentle, kind, sweet… loving. When I'd been Debbie, tender moments were rare, and never lasted so long. He looked like… I don't know. Happy. But something else too. But because those questions were too hard to form, I gave them up, for now.

"Were you hurt?"

"From… Samson or… you?"

"Me."

He shook his head. "A little… at first, but… I'm not now."

"…Samson?"

"Nope. Not a scratch… You did quite a number on Samson with that lamp, though. We were both covered in his blood when we came in."

_Good. _

"What did you find?"

"On Samson?" I nodded. He hesitated. "Not much." I raised an eyebrow and he laughed. "Well, he'd recorded everything… tapes of the girls, some of the girls actually… dying." I cringed and he nodded. "Yeah, …It was pretty gruesome. But the tapes were more than enough for a conviction… and they helped us find you."

"His basement?"

He cringed. "I, uh…" His lips twitched uncertainly. "You… don't want to know."

I cringed too. I had been hoping his calling it a 'torture chamber' was part of his delusions. I had been hoping it was simply a room without windows with a few ropes and knifes… something less gruesome than I'd imagined. My eyes flickered back to him again. He'd said we'd both been covered in Samson's blood…

"You… saved me?"

He shrugged, a sheepish, shy kind of smile on his face. "I did CPR… nothing impressive. …Anyone could have done it."

I shook my head. It was impressive. And I liked that not just anyone did it. I met his eyes. "Thank you."

He shrugged, as if to say it was nothing, but his eyes told me he didn't believe it either. I held his gaze, trying to see exactly what he was thinking in them. Why was he here? Was he just going to say thank-you for not letting Samson kill him and Wes in order to get to me and then send me back to San Francisco? …I was going to have to go back to being Sara Sidle, with nothing but a few impressive degrees and someone else's face to show for it. I puckered my lips in a frown, and then blinked in surprise—because he was kissing me.

My eyes fluttered closed. I knew I should hold back… wait for him to realize what he'd done and pull away before I invested myself. Because no doubt he would have blamed himself for my death—finding me alive and okay was a relief to him. He wasn't thinking clearly. But I couldn't… I kissed him back, deeply, passionately, unreservedly. It might be my last chance.

And he didn't pull back. He didn't come to his senses. He stopped, catching his breath, but his eyes stayed closed even as mine flickered open… and then he was bestowing small kisses over my lips, over and over, with a reverence that had tears in my eyes again, even as I let them close and met each press of his lips. Was I ever going to stop being so damned emotional?

He leaned back when I frowned at my own tears, smiling softly. "…I'm sorry. I… I've just been waiting days for you to wake up so I could do that."

I drew in a shaky breath. "I… don't understand." I could have kicked myself for that. Why was I questioning this? Why did I need to understand him? If he wanted to kiss me, he could kiss me. It didn't matter why.

He swallowed, squeezing my hand and running a hand over my face again, as if to brush hair from my face—but of course my hair wasn't long enough. "Sara, I…" He shifted in his chair, and he looked like he was trying to determine how to begin… how to explain. "When I thought you were… Debbie, I… I liked the changes. I liked the things that were different about you—but I didn't feel like I could trust them. It… kept me a step removed, even when we made love."

I closed my eyes. I knew this, but it hurt to hear it… even if most of what he was saying was positive. It took something away from the only intimate moments I had with him. He squeezed my hand again, making me open my eyes. "When… I had your file… from child services… It had years' worth of… journals." I cringed. Oh god. Not only did he know every horror that had sent me into foster care, but he knew every embarrassing adolescent thought.

He didn't seem to notice this reaction though… he was staring at our clasped hands, clearly thinking how to go on. "I… read them and… I was so sad that I would never get to meet you." I watched him more intently. What was he trying to say? "I… I felt guilty, coming home and… sleeping in the same bed as 'Debbie.' I…" He grit his teeth, like he thought this was not coming out the way he wanted it to at all. He let out a breath.

"I fell in love with you, not when I thought you were Debbie, though I loved the changes—because I was considering that along with everything else she'd done—but… when I read about you. I fell in love with young, beautiful, smart, ambitious Sara Sidle… and it made me feel like I had to push you away, when you… wanted to be intimate… again."

I drew in a shaking breath, certain the heart monitor beeping on the wall was giving away the thudding in my breast. I simply couldn't focus on it—my entire world had been reduced to a single point, and I could not take in anything but Gil right now. He swallowed, his eyes flickering between mine and our hands. He squeezed.

"Sara, honey, I… In the restaurant, when you came to talk with me… You told me you loved me, and if I'd been less of a fool… If I'd been braver…" He sighed, like this wasn't working either. "I… I love you Sara. I fell in love with you when you were Debbie, but I didn't recognize it. I fell in love with you again through your journals—but I thought you were gone. And when I realized who you were… everything I had in my hands… all the possibilities… it scared the shit out of me, Sara. I just wanted you to come home, so I could stop worrying about losing you and start worrying about exactly what all of this meant. I mean… it's a lot to take in. But I—"

I tugged him roughly out of his seat again, colliding his lips against mine, kissing and kissing him and feeling the tears fall freely. Apparently a side effect of near death experiences was excessive emotion… But he didn't seem to care. His hands came to my face, brushing the tears away in between tender kisses, and everything in my world was right again.

Until someone cleared their throat—Gil pulled away from me, embarrassed, as the nurse stepped in closer. "Sorry to interrupt… just wanted to check on some of your vitals, now that you're awake. How do you feel?"

I suffered through minutes of questions and her exam with barely concealed impatience, and when she left, I turned back to Gil. "They, uh… they haven't said anything about…" I blushed, and he smiled, like he still couldn't believe what had happened.

"What, honey?"

I looked down. "I, uh… I just hoped that maybe… I was pregnant. I mean… I know that's silly, and I didn't want it when Samson… but… now that I'm okay, and… and we're okay… We never used…anything."

He smiled, and kissed me. "I know it feels like we… made love… a lifetime ago, but… it's only been about a week and a half. They… haven't said anything, and I'm certain they checked, but… it doesn't mean you're not."

I looked into his eyes, wide and a lighter blue than I thought I'd ever seen, his smile making them seem brighter than normal. "Would… you… want me to be?"

He leaned in and kissed me quickly again. "Well… if you were… I'd worry about any side effects, from the attack and the lack of oxygen… but I'd still be happy about it. And… if not, then… I mean, as… as long as you wanted it… It would just mean we'd have to spend a lot of time trying again…" His grin was mischievous, and so very light and happy. I'd never, ever seen him this happy.

He loved me. Me, not Debbie. I could see it.

When I didn't answer, he cleared his throat. "I, uh… also, before… trying, I thought… The hospital offered to pay for another plastic surgery, but… it's risky. They rebuilt a good portion of your face and… to get you to look like Sara, again… it would be pretty extensive surgery. The structure of your face… your teeth again… I… I didn't want to say 'yes' without talking to you…"

I drew in a deep breath. I wanted to be Sara again… I wanted to look like myself. I didn't want Gil to look at me and see Debbie anymore. I glanced at him. "…What… do you see, when you look at me?"

His eyes were soft, his voice gentle. "I see you, Sara. Only you."

I nodded, blinking back the water works. At least until I knew a little more—If I was pregnant… how the change of face would affect Wesley… what the specific risks were… I could wait. He saw _me_, and that was all that mattered.


	57. Chapter Fifty Six

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: :) Sorry for the delay in updates. I made an effort to draw the ending out. :) So I'm posting two chapters at a time. Enjoy and thank you all so much for reading and reviewing through all of this. It has meant the world to me.

Instead of adding extra stuff on the top of the next chapter, I'll just throw this in here as well. I'm calling the next chapter a chapter, but it's... kind of epilogue-y. Ish. :)

I haven't decided if I'll do a real epilogue after the next chapter, so I'm calling this one not an epilogue... so I might still add one. I'm not really sure. :)

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Six:

The days since we'd found Sara had been a blur of activity. Once I was certain she was okay, I'd spent hours on the phone by her bedside arguing with a myriad of people—the San Francisco Crime Lab, thankfully, used the same insurance company as ours… so I was only sent in between departments of the same company, rather than back and forth between two separate ones. I had explained to perhaps fifty different people that my wife had died in a plane crash and they'd given me another woman instead, called her my wife, and gave her my wife's face… and then they'd transfer me to another person.

You would think that something like that would be told before the next person picked up the phone, but they must have not believed the person before them. Their next question, of course, was why I was calling on behalf of Sara Sidle if she was, in fact, alive. I opted not to tell them Sara had lied and pretended to be Debbie because she was in love with me… even though they both had the same coverage, it would probably still fall under insurance fraud. Instead, I said she'd been unable to communicate until we'd left the hospital… and when she could communicate, we realized a serial killer was targeting her.

So she pretended to be my wife for her own protection, receiving no medical care, until we could find him… which we didn't, until he managed to land her in the hospital again. Which was why we needed to clear up this whole insurance issue.

I ended up threatening to sue Desert Palm for their mistake—they got on the phone with the insurance company, and they must have worked something out… because from then on, there weren't any problems. And the hospital offered her a new face, free of charge… which was kind of crazy, but… then I spent days staring at Sara's face and wondering what she must have gone through, not seeing her own face in the mirror… not having anything of her own… hearing me call her Debbie's name. Maybe she'd want the changes…

I told them we'd wait until she woke up and could decide for herself.

My mother brought Wes in, but he looked like he was scared. I told him he could give Mommy a hug, knowing even as I said it that things were going to be impossible to explain to him, but he shook his head and clung to my leg instead. …He needed some time.

The thought of bringing him to a psychologist was out. I know, rationally, not every child psychologist is a serial killer. I know that. But so far we'd had terrible luck… I wasn't ready to jump back into it just yet.

Everyone from the lab stopped in, at one time or another. Warrick brought flowers and a teddy bear for Wes, and Nick brought flowers and a card… Greg came in with more balloons than the nurses would let him bring in the room, and Catherine brought Wesley a stuffed dog and a card Lindsey had made. She disregarded Sara entirely… not because she had anything against the her, I knew, but because she couldn't completely separate her dislike for Debbie from Sara.

It would take some time.

Brass called and told me that IA had cleared me, thanks to a lack of evidence save for Nick's statement, hours after Sara had woken up. …I hadn't been able to stop kissing her, even since she'd been up. In the middle of conversations… while she was eating horrible hospital food… while she watched TV or in the middle of me reading to her or her on the phone, telling Wes she loved him and she'd see him the next day… while she was trying to fall asleep.

Once the nurse came in for the final check of the night, she folded back the covers of her bed and scooted over. "Sara…" I admonished, but she simply smiled.

"Gil—I fell out of the sky in a burning plane, carried a strange one year old out with me, was hospitalized and had a strange woman's face on instead of my own… I then proceeded to fall in love with her husband and her child, and chose to suffer the consequences of her infidelity rather than give up said man-of-dreams… but in the process of dealing with the child's post traumatic stress, I unknowingly revealed my identity to a serial killer, who then tried to kill me… successfully did, actually, until you brought me back to life. …If I want you in my bed, you can cut me some slack."

…There was no arguing with that logic. I crawled into bed with her, holding her tightly to my chest.

"…They'll probably discharge you sometime tomorrow… My mom's bringing some clothes for you, when she brings Wes tomorrow."

She nodded, sleepily, against my chest, and I held her tighter, unable to keep my lips from returning, again and again—to her brow, to her temple, her cheek, the crown of her head. "I love you, Sara."

She hummed against me. "I love you too, Gil."

I slept peacefully.

The next morning, Wes came in and, seeing Sara awake, flew into her arms. She winced when he did, but the smile on her face never faltered. My mother greeted Sara, and then turned to me while they were hugging, and signed instead of speaking—strange, because she didn't do that when a non-signing person was in the room. She didn't feel like it was polite.

"I was talking to Wes about coming here, yesterday… I showed him a picture of Sara from San Francisco—he pointed and called her Mommy. …I …was curious, so I showed him an old picture of Debbie. He… didn't say anything. He didn't even want to look at it."

My eyes widened, and I turned back to the pair of them. Wes was beaming, laughing… Sara was playing peek-a-boo and laying kisses over his face… and I felt like no matter what the obstacles, we were going to get through it, together.

We went home, later that day… and though Sara had to stay in bed, it wasn't like when she'd come home as 'Debbie.' Wes stayed in the room, playing with her, all day. I slept with her each night, only went in to the office a few hours a day, and because she'd decided to wait before she made any big decisions about her face, my mother stayed another week and a half, until Sara was on her feet again… and then she went home. I took her to the airport and once I saw her safely onto the plane, I made a detour to the lab. I was going to take some much needed time off… take Wes and Sara on a real vacation.

Because Wesley had been fine, in San Francisco, when we were there all day… and Sara could definitely use a little time away, before I had to go back to work and she had to deal with where her money had gone and getting her diplomas—because they'd been in her apartment, which had been emptied out and re-rented.

We'd talked about her applying at the crime lab, especially since the graveyard shift still needed another CSI, but decided that she would stay home for a little while… she needed the break and Wesley probably couldn't handle being in daycare. In a year or two, maybe we'd reconsider.

I walked into the lab, avoiding the people who seemed to seek me out, wanting to talk about my wife who wasn't my wife almost getting killed by a serial killer. I don't know why they'd assume I would want to talk about such a thing, but they did. I was in my office, leaving more notes for my assistant director and filling out a form for time away when my boss came in.

My boss who was retiring soon. …My boss who, apparently, wanted me to take his place.

This, of course, was what he wanted to talk to me about. "Gil—Nice to see you back in the office. Going back to working full days?"

"No, actually, I'm taking some time off… I have tons of vacation on the books and, frankly, my family needs the time."

He nodded, slowly, sitting in the chair across from me. "No, no, I understand… Take as much time as you need to, Gil. …And, uh… when you get back, maybe you can move into a different office…"

I frowned, glancing around. I _liked_ my office. "…Why?"

He grinned. "Well, this office would be fine… it's just not in the right building."

It took me a moment, and then my eyes widened. I sat back in my chair. "…Are you…?"

"If you want it, Gil, it's yours." I let my eyebrows raise. He was offering me a position I'd been working towards for years—Director of the Investigative Services Bureau. I would oversee the bureaus of Detectives, Narcotics, Criminalistics, and the Violent Offenders Task Force. I…

I wasn't even remotely excited for the offer. I would see even less of the lab… less of the cases… than I did now. I had learned that the higher up you moved, the more paperwork you did and the less justice you gave. My management had done a lot for the crime lab… but that was because I was a CSI, through and through. It was second-nature to improve on what I already knew so well… but I had no interest in doing such a thing away from the lab. I hardly got to be involved in the cases now, except when they were high profile and virtually absent evidence.

I smiled, signed my form for time off, and handed it to him. "Thanks for the offer. Really… a few months ago, I… I think I would have taken it in a heartbeat. But… Wes needs me to be home more, not less, and… the lab is really where I want to be, and… and I don't have anything to prove, now, with my ambitions. Sara… isn't Debbie."

He smiled, looked at me for a long moment, and stood, offering me a hand to shake. "You would have been the best man for the job…"

I smiled. "Thank you."

We shook hands, and he nodded. "Have a good vacation, Gil."

I watched him go, finished my note to my assistant, and left the lab…

I was going home, to my family.


	58. Chapter Fifty Seven

Chapter Fifty-Seven:

I held Wesley tight to my side and leaned over the rail of the ship to see the dolphins jumping beside us, chasing the ship. "Dolphins." I told him, and he grinned.

"Dophin!" He giggled and hugged me and I squeezed him even closer to my breast. The sea air was warm and salty and I reveled in the moment—my baby warm in my arms, my still too short hair blowing off my forehead, and the comforting presence slowly approaching behind me. Gil thought he was stealthy—he'd gone to put our carry-on luggage in our cabin so Wesley wouldn't miss waving buh-bye to Grandma on the shore. I could hardly make out Elaina from here, but I waved, and Wesley did too, and a small hand rose up among a crowd of small hands, waving and then tucking down the middle and ring fingers. _I love you._

Wesley recognized the sign and mimicked it as best he could and then blew Grandma a kiss and I could feel the older woman's joy, as tangible as the wind around us, even at this distance. And then Gil had finally wound his way through the people and wrapped his arms around me and laying a kiss on the curve between my neck and my shoulder, lifting his own hand to the air, telling his mother that he loved her too. A kiss to the top of Wesley's head as he giggled at the Dolphins again… and the ship was moving.

We waved and waved, even when we lost sight of her, until all the people waving the ship away were out of sight. And then I turned back to Gil, the man who had returned from dropping the very woman we'd just waved to at the airport with news that he'd turned down a promotion, taken some time off, and was going to take Wesley and I someplace tropical.

Flying was out of the question, at least for a little while… at least until Wes was a little better adjusted, so we were taking a cruise ship from L.A. to Hawaii and staying as long as Debbie's shopping fund would pay for, and then some. We'd spent the night with his mother, in the home he'd grown up in, and I'd spent hours with Elaina looking at her artwork and through photo albums of Gil as a smaller, blonder, curly-headed little boy. His glasses had been too big for his face, his smile too serious for his age, and his eyes brighter than anyone hovering over a dead cat ought to have… He was perfect.

Elaina was glad that I wasn't Debbie… and she was glad I'd been brave enough to fight for love. I had been surprised—to the point that I blurted out, "But I lied to your son."

She had smiled, and turned the page in the album—to Gil and Debbie's wedding picture. He was young, handsome, happy… but not too happy. He'd definitely been happier in the last week than he was in the picture, I noted with no small amount of satisfaction. And Debbie—her eyes were cold. She looked happy, but all the joy was directed inwards. It wasn't joy in joining with another person for eternity—it was joy in self-achievement. She was proud of herself, probably for fooling such an amazing man into loving her, even knowing her faults, but it had nothing to do with the man whose arms were around her.

"Your heart didn't lie, honey. He and Wes need you, after her… Who am I to argue with the way God brings about his miracles?"

Normally, I would have nodded politely, quietly reminding myself that randomness was a natural part of the world… a part of the way everything worked. But maybe, just maybe, she was right. …Maybe I'd fallen out of the sky for a reason. Maybe chance was the mechanism by which God worked. Maybe there was someone up there, writing the fates of the universe and of our lives in complex equations, solving for x… Because I couldn't believe in a God who didn't function within the realms of science and math. It was the language of the universe—just, now I thought… there might be someone up there, speaking it to us.

I hardly slept that night—I'd lived by the ocean my entire life, but I'd never been on a cruise. I teased Gil that he'd get sick of me in such close quarters, without the lab and his bugs to escape to. He shook his head, and smiled—"Family time," Gil called it. I had teased him that he'd chosen someplace tropical because he wanted bikini time… and he'd simply grinned, kissed me, and told me he had never felt so happy or so in love.

And if he kept talking like that, I was okay with bikini time.

"What's the cabin like?"

He put his hands out for Wesley and the toddler leaned forward, into Gil's arms. "Small, but not bad… there's no separate bedroom, just a couch that pulls out."

I frowned and he chuckled, guiding us towards it. "Sounds like we've got an hour or so to get settled before supper and a show… and later in the week, they've got several on-ship daycares for a formal night."

I wrinkled my brow. "Can't he come?"

He smiled and kissed me again. "I'm feeling jealous of someone who is much shorter than me. …And his voice is a lot higher."

"And he's way cuter." I added with a smirk, earning myself a playful glare and a pinch in a place that made me widen my eyes and look around in alarm, to make sure no one had seen.

The cabin was small, and the pull out couch wasn't very good. Wesley would probably end up sleeping between us all the way to Hawaii. But that was okay—after everything that had happened, I wanted to keep him close. I wanted to keep both the men in my life close.

We ate dinner, we took in a show directed towards children—Wesley might have been a little young for it. The six year olds in front of us seemed to enjoy it more than he did, but he laughed… he clapped… he fell asleep on Gil's shoulder at least a half an hour before it ended. We snuck out as soon as we could, and walked slowly along the deck, one of Gil's arms tucked under Wesley's bottom, in the crook of his knees, the other wrapped around my waist.

Back in the cabin, I let Gil change his diaper and change him into pajamas, softly humming a lullaby to keep him sleeping peacefully and tucking him into the center of the large bed… and I moved into the bathroom, pulling out the home pregnancy test I'd brought with. I'd told Gil we'd just wait and see if I got my period… but he was not particularly aware of my cycle yet, so he didn't know that I should have gotten it the day before. But then again, we'd been travelling…there'd been no small amount of stress in the last four weeks. It could be anything.

I listened to him hum to our baby while I took the test and capped it, setting it on the counter to wait out the time.

I wanted it to be yes. I wanted to be pregnant, even if it meant that I'd be having morning sickness on a ship on the way home… and probably while we were in Hawaii too. But if I wasn't… that was fine. If I still wasn't by the time we got home, I was going to take Desert Palm up on their surgery. I knew it was silly—the most important people in my life saw _me_… but it had taken nearly thirty years for me to love being Sara Sidle. Now that I did… I wanted to _be_ Sara Sidle, in every way… I wanted my own face back.

Gil would still have some time off to take care of Wes while I recovered… and then we'd go back to trying. Because Wes was so much better since Gil had been home more. He hadn't been sullen in days… had been playing and laughing more and more. And we had talked about it—we didn't want so many years between them. He'd been an only child, and my brother had been many years older than me. We wanted them to be close.

Still—whatever happened, happened. If I was pregnant… if I got pregnant in Hawaii, I'd wait for the surgery. And if I didn't, I'd wait for the baby. Either way—we were together. We had each other, we had Wesley… that was what mattered.

A knock came at the door and I stood up, flushing the toilet and moving over to it. Gil smiled and pecked my lips. "He's asleep… are you okay? You've been in here a while…"

I glanced at my watch—three minutes had passed. I bit my bottom lip. "I, uh… I took a test…"

He tilted his head. "A test?"

"Well, I… I was supposed to get my period yesterday and—" He kissed me, deeply. "Are you?"

I laughed. "I… I don't know yet. I have to go—" I let out a gasp as his mouth slid over my neck, all softness and heat, sending goose bumps down my arms, his hands pushing my shirt up.

"It can wait…"

I chuckled, letting him back me up against the bathroom wall and close the door softly, to not wake Wesley. "You aren't curious?"

He groaned softly. "I am, but…" my shirt came over my head and he growled softly, pulling me tight to him again. "But I've been wanting to do this all day…"

My eyelids fluttered. I knew he was telling the truth—he hadn't been able to keep his hands away from me, from the inappropriate pinch to the constant contact… arms around me, caressing an arm, kisses on my neck in public. It had to have been driving him crazy. "Wesley…"

He captured my mouth again, tugging impatiently at the button of my jeans. "Is asleep. …There's no way we're waiting until Hawaii to do this."

I laughed, still thinking that perhaps it was risky to try to do this in a tiny cruise shower while our almost-two year old slept through the thin walls… but he'd managed to unfasten the front of my jeans, and the soft, teasing brush of the pads of his fingers sliding underneath the waistband of my underwear had me weak in the knees. …He was right, there was no way we could wait until Hawaii. …We'd just have to be quiet.

I reached behind myself, unhooking my bra impatiently while he moved to his knees, tugging my jeans down and over my bare feet. He brushed a thumb over the flower tattoo at my ankle and stood again, taking my hand and pulling me over to the shower, turning the hot water on. "The band-aid thing was pretty sneaky… I would have noticed the tattoo…"

I grinned, unbuttoning his awful Hawaiian shirt. He'd thought it was appropriate, just like his straw hat. I disagreed, but then… who could say no to this man? Considering the unread pregnancy test on the counter top and the activity in which I was presently engaged… it certainly wasn't me. Mostly, he had me saying yes. Yes, yes, yes…

I don't know how we got into the shower, sans all the remaining clothing—I just know that the water was all around us, hot, but not as hot as my skin felt—I was flushed, shaking all over, my hands running over his body like I could consume him if I simply touched him enough. He hadn't shaved in a day or so, and the scrape of his whiskers against my skin was a delicious pain.

His hand slid down my abdomen, fingers sliding between my legs and deep inside me with no resistance. He growled against my neck when they did and his teeth dug gently into my shoulder. "Oh god, Sara… You feel… you… feel…" My eyes were rolling back in my head when he pulled them away, his right leg rising between my legs instead, his foot coming to rest on the little ledge behind me. My left leg dangled over his and I was up on the ball of my right foot… but I could feel him pressed against me, hard and hot and trembling as much as I was.

I was gasping frantically as his lips came over mine again and he pushed inside me. It was a good thing that he did kiss me—my moan would have certainly woken Wes if he hadn't covered it. My leg wrapped around him, tugging him in deeper and from his resulting growl and thrust, I gathered that he was as lost as I was.

Though we'd gotten to this point rather quickly, our lovemaking was slow. He ground into me and I pulled him tighter with my leg, tightening around him each time he pulled back to thrust again… if we hadn't been on a ship with a giant water heater, the water would certainly have gone cold by the time I was digging my nails into his shoulder blades, seeing stars behind my eyelids, begging for completion.

His breath was hot against my ear, his voice straining with lust and love and overwhelming need. "Sara… you… oh god, I… I don't… ever want… it to stop. I… You feel so… Like you were made for me. Like I… like I just fit."

A single thrust after those words had me convulsing around him, my toes curling, biting my lip so hard I was certain I would draw blood, simply to remain silent, and I could feel him emptying inside me, his grip on my hips enough to tell me that it had been as earth-shattering as mine had been.

We came down slowly—there was no hurry, no rush or pressing obligation. Everything we needed… everything in the world, was waiting for us. For the first time in a very, very long time… we were both exactly where we were supposed to be.


End file.
